Heaven - The Treasury Of Everlasting Life.

See Where She Comes Apparelled Like The Spring.

For There Was Never Yet Philosoper That Could Endure The Toothache Patiently, However They Have Writ The Style Of Gods, And Made A Push At Chance And Sufferance.

Nay, Do Not Think I Flatter. For What Advancement May I Hope From Thee, That No Revenue Hast But Thy Good Spirits To Feed And Clothe Thee? Why Should The Poor Be Flattered?

No Stony Bulwark Can Resist The Love, And Love Dares What Anyone Can Love.

Arise, Fair Sun, And Kill The Envious Moon, Who Is Already Sick And Pale With Grief That Thou, Her Maid, Art Far More Fair Than She. . . .