In Heaven It Is Always Autumn.

...whatever Dies Was Not Mixed Equally, If Our Two Loves Be One Or Thou And I Love So Alike That None Can Slacken, None Can Die.

Send Home My Long Strayed Eyes To Me, Which (oh) Too Long Have Dwelt On Thee.

I Did Best When I Had Least Truth For My Subjects.

Be Thine Own Palace, Or The World's Thy Jail.

Thou Art Slave To Fate, Chance, Kings, And Desperate Men, And Dost With Poison, War, And Sickness Dwell, And Poppy, Or Charms, Can Make Us Sleep As Well, And Better Than Thy Stroke. Why Swell'st Thou Then?