Go, Grieving Rimes Of Mine, To That

I Desire That Death Find Me Ready And Writing, Or If It Please Christ, Praying And Intears.

All Pleasure In The World Is A Passing Dream.

Go, Grieving Rimes Of Mine, To That Hard Stone Whereunder Lies My Darling, Lies My Dear, And Cry To Her To Speak From Heaven's Sphere.

Where You Are Is Of No Moment, But Only What You Are Doing There. It Is Not The Place That Ennobles You, But You The Place, And This Only By Doing That Which Is Great And Noble.

There Is No Lighter Burden, Nor More Agreeable, Than A Pen.