Your Praises Will Become Your

I Will Go Wash; And When My Face Is Fair, You Shall Perceive Whether I Blush Or No.

Verily, I Swear, It Is Better To Be Lowly Born, And Range With Humble Livers In Content, Than To Be Perked Up In A Glistering Grief, And Wear A Golden Sorrow.

This Bud Of Love, By Summer's Ripening Breath, May Prove A Beauteous Flower When Next We Meet

Our Holy Lives Must Win A New World's Crown.

For Which Of My Bad Parts Didst Thou First Fall In Love With Me?