If Ever Any Beauty I Did See,

Kind Pity Chokes My Spleen.

The Distance From Nothing To A Little, Is Ten Thousand Times More, Than From It To The Highest Degree In This Life.

Who Ever Comes To Shroud Me, Do Not Harm Nor Question Much That Subtle Wreath Of Hair, Which Crowns My Arm; The Mystery, The Sign You Must Not Touch, For 'tis My Outward Soul, Viceroy To That, Which Then To Heaven Being Gone, Will Leave This To Control, And Keep These Limbs, Her Provinces, From Dissolution.

At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow Your Trumpets, Angels.

This Only Is Charity, To Do All, All That We Can.