I Am A Little World Made Cunningly.

I Wonder, By My Troth, What Thou And I Did, Till We Lov'd?

I Am A Little World Made Cunningly.

I Am Two Fools, I Know, For Loving, And For Saying So.

Poor Intricated Soul! Riddling, Perplexed, Labyrinthical Soul!

We Can Die By It, If Not Live By Love, And If Unfit For Tombs And Hearse Our Legend Be, It Will Be Fit For Verse; And If No Peace Of Chronicle We Prove, We'll Build In Sonnet Pretty Rooms; As Well A Well Wrought Urne Becomes The Greatest Ashes, As Half-acre Tombs.