I Will Despair, And Be At Enmity

Look What Thy Soul Holds Dear, Imagine It To Lie That Way Thou Goest, Not Whence Thou Com'st. Suppose The Singing Birds Musicians, The Grass Whereon Thou Tread'st The Presence Strewed, The Flowers Fair Ladies, And Thy Steps No More Than A Delight Measure Or A Dance; For Gnarling Sorrow Hath Less Power To Bite The Man That Mocks At It And Sets It Light.

Free From Gross Passion Or Of Mirth Or Anger

If After Every Tempest Come Such Calms, May The Winds Blow Till They Have Waken'd Death!

My Life, My Joy, My Food, My Ail The World!

Preferred Three Hours Quicker Over One Moment Late.