If Men Could Be Contented To Be

A Violet In The Youth Of Primy Nature, Forward, Not Permanent--sweet, Not Lasting; The Perfume And Suppliance Of A Minute; No More.

There Is A Kind Of Character In Thy Life, That To The Observer Doth Thy History, Fully Unfold.

Who Alone Suffers Suffers Most I' Th' Mind, Leaving Free Things And Happy Shows Behind; But Then The Mind Much Sufferance Doth O'erskip When Grief Hath Mates, And Bearing Fellowship.

Fortune Reigns In Gifts Of The World.

Open Thy Gate Of Mercy, Gracious God, My Soul Flies Through These Wounds To Seek Out Thee.