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He Hath Borne Himself Beyond The Promise Of His Age, Doing, In The Figure Of A Lamb, The Feats Of A Lion.

Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till The Tree Die!

When Most I Wink, Then Do My Eyes Best See

Whatever Praises Itself But In The Deed, Devours The Deed In The Praise.

Of One That Lov'd Not Wisely But Too Well.