Let Man's Soul Be A Sphere, And

We Can Die By It, If Not Live By Love, And If Unfit For Tombs And Hearse Our Legend Be, It Will Be Fit For Verse; And If No Peace Of Chronicle We Prove, We'll Build In Sonnet Pretty Rooms; As Well A Well Wrought Urne Becomes The Greatest Ashes, As Half-acre Tombs.

To Rage, To Lust, To Write To, To Commend, All Is The Purlieu Of The God Of Love.

Come Live With Me, And Be My Love, And We Will Some New Pleasures Prove Of Golden Sands, And Crystal Brooks, With Silken Lines, And Silver Hooks.

For God's Sake Hold Your Tongue, And Let Me Love.

Great Sorrows Cannot Speak.