The Soul Of Sweet Delight, Can Never

God And His Priest And King,...make Up A Heaven Of Our Misery.

Naught Can Deform The Human Race Like To The Armor's Iron Brace.

Like A Fiend In A Cloud, With Howling Woe, After Night I Do Crowd, And With Night Will Go; I Turn My Back To The East, From Whence Comforts Have Increased; For Light Doth Seize My Brain With Frantic Pain.

Wisdom Is Sold In A Desolate Marketplace Where None Can Come To Buy.

Christ's Crucifix Shall Be Made An Excuse For Executing Criminals.