Kind Pity Chokes My Spleen.

And Swear No Where Lives A Woman True, And Fair.

Twice Or Thrice Had I Loved Thee Before I Knew Thy Face Or Name, So In A Voice, So In A Shapeless Flame, Angels Affect Us Oft, And Worshiped Be.

It Is Too Little To Call Man A Little World; Except God, Man Is A Diminutive To Nothing.

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

Busy Old Fool, Unruly Sun, Why Dost Thou Thus Through Windows And Through Curtains Call On Us? Must To Thy Motions Lovers Seasons Run?