Bid Me Despair, And I'll Despair,under That

When The Artless Doctor Sees No One Hope, But Of His Fees, And His Skill Runs On The Lees; Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me! When His Potion And His Pill, Has, Or None, Or Little Skill, Meet For Nothing, But To Kill; Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me!

Fair Daffodils, We Weep To See You Haste Away So Soon: As Yet The Early-rising Sun Has Not Attained His Noon.

Give Me A Kiss, And To That Kiss A Score: Then To That Twenty, Add A Hundred More.

The Body Is The Soul's Poor House Or Home, Whose Ribs The Laths Are And Whose Flesh The Loam.

Hell Is No Other But A Soundlesse Pit, Where No One Beame Of Comfort Peeps In It.