What I Have Done Is Yours; What

As You From Crimes Would Pardon'd Be, Let Your Indulgence Set Me Free.

O, I Do Not Like That Paying Back, 'tis A Double Labor.

My Heart Is Turned To Stone; I Strike It, And It Hurts My Hand.

Love And Meekness, Lord, Become A Churchman Better Than Ambition: Win Straying Souls With Modesty Again, Cast None Away.

It Is The Witness Still Of Excellency To Put A Strange Face On His Own Perfection.