God Is So Omnipresent. . . .

Kind Pity Chokes My Spleen.

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

To Rage, To Lust, To Write To, To Commend, All Is The Purlieu Of The God Of Love.

In Heaven It Is Always Autumn.

Up Then, Fair Phoenix Bride, Frustrate The Sun; Thyself From Thine Affection Takest Warmth Enough, And From Thine Eye All Lesser Birds Will Take Their Jollity. Up, Up, Fair Bride, And Call Thy Stars From Out Their Several Boxes, Take Thy Rubies, Pearls, And Diamonds Forth, And Make Thyself A Constellation Of Them All; And By Their Blazing Signify That A Great Princess Falls, But Doth Not Die. Be Thou A New Star, That To Us Portends Ends Of Much Wonder; And Be Thou Those Ends.