Keep Us, Lord, So Awake In The

Despair Is The Damp Of Hell, As Joy Is The Serenity Of Heaven.

Then Love Is Sin, And Let Me Sinful Be.

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

Yet Nothing Can To Nothing Fall, Nor Any Place Be Empty Quite; Therefore I Think My Breast Hath All Those Pieces Still, Though They Be Not Unite; And Now, As Broken Glasses Show A Hundred Lesser Faces, So My Rags Of Heart Can Like, Wish, And Adore, But After One Such Love, Can Love No More.

Whilst My Physicians By Their Love Are Grown Cosmographers, And I Their Map, Who Lie Flat On This Bed.