I Throw Myself Down In My Chamber,

Nature Hath No Goal Though She Hath Law.

Die Not, Poore Death, Nor Yet Canst Thou Kill Me.

I Long To Talk With Some Old Lover's Ghost, Who Died Before The God Of Love Was Born.

Whoever Loves, If He Do Not Propose The Right True End Of Love, He's One That Goes To Sea For Nothing But To Make Him Sick.

To Roam Giddily, And Be Everywhere But At Home, Such Freedom Doth A Banishment Become.