What, Man, Defy The Devil. Consider, He's

Lords, I Protest My Soul Is Full Of Woe That Blood Should Sprinkle Me To Make Me Grow. Come, Mourn With Me For What I Do Lament, And Put Sullen Black Incontinent. I'll Make A Voyage To The Holy Land To Wash This Blood Off From My Guilty Hand. March Sadly After. Grace My Mournings Here In Weeping After This Untimely Bier.

I Am Sure Care's An Enemy To Life.

Yea From The Table Of My Memory I'll Wipe Away All Trivial Fond Records.

A Breath Thou Art, Servile To All The Skyey Influences.

Love Is Merely A Madness, And, I Tell You, Deserves As Well A Dark House And A Whip As Madmen Do.