Death, Thou Shalt Die.

Women Are Like The Arts, Forced Unto None, Open To All Searchers, Unprized, If Unknown.

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

Yesternight The Sun Went Hence, And Yet Is Here Today.

Love Was As Subtly Caught, As A Disease; But Being Got It Is A Treasure Sweet, Which To Defend Is Harder Than To Get: And Ought Not Be Profaned On Either Part, For Though 'tis Got By Chance, 'tis Kept By Art.

So, So, Break Off This Last Lamenting Kiss, Which Sucks Two Souls, And Vapors Both Away.