And Tears Are Heard Within The Harp

For Death Betimes Is Comfort, Not Dismay, And Who Can Rightly Die Needs No Delay.

What Name To Call Thee By, O Virgin Fair, I Know Not, For Thy Looks Are Not Of Earth And More Than Mortal Seems Thy Countenances

I Would Have Preferred To Have Been Born In Any Other Time Than Our Own.

I Have Taken Pride In Others, Never In Myself.

Rarely Do Great Beauty And Great Virtue Dwell Together.