I Scorn You, Scurvy Companion.

Mine Honour Is My Life; Both Grow In One; Take Honour From Me, And My Life Is Done.

A Wretched Soul, Bruised With Adversity, We Bid Be Quiet When We Hear It Cry. But Were We Burd'ned With Like Weight Of Pain, As Much Or More We Should Ourselves Complain: So Thou, That Hast No Unkind Mate To Grieve Thee, With Urging Helpless Patience Wouldst Relieve Me; But If Thou Live To See Like Right Bereft, This Fool-begged Patience In Thee Will Be Left.

What Must Be Shall Be.

Well, God's Above All; And There Be Souls Must Be Saved, And There Be Souls Must Not Be Saved.

I Have A Kind Soul That Would Give You Thanks. And Knows Not How To Do It But With Tears.