He Is Not Worthy Of

My Rage Is Gone, And I Am Struck With Sorrow. Take Him Up. Help, Three O' Th' Chiefest Soldiers; I'll Be One. Beat Thou The Drum, That It Speaks Mournfully, Trail Your Steel Spikes. Though In This City He Hath Widowed And Unchilded Many A One, Which To This Hour Bewail The Injury, Yet He Shall Have A Noble Memory. Assist.

My Heart Suspects More Than Mine Eye Can See.

And In The Morn And Liquid Dew Of Youth, Contagious Blastments Are Are Most Imminent.

Care Is No Cure, But Rather Corrosive, For Things That Are Not To Be Remedied.

Take Her Away; For She Hath Lived Too Long, To Fill The World With Vicious Qualities.