No Man Is An Island, Entire Of

Poor Intricated Soul! Riddling, Perplexed, Labyrinthical Soul!

Our Critical Day Is Not The Very Day Of Our Death; But The Whole Course Of Our Life.

For I Am Every Dead Thing In Whom Love Wrought New Alchemy For His Art Did Express A Quintessence Even From Nothingness, From Dull Privations, And Lean Emptiness He Ruined Me, And I Am Re-begot Of Absence, Darkness, Death; Things Which Are Not.

Without Outward Declarations, Who Can Conclude An Inward Love?

Goe And Catche A Falling Starre, Get With Child A Mandrake Root, Tell Me, Where All Past Yeares Are, Or Who Cleft The Divel's Foot. Teach Me To Hear Mermaides' Singing, Or To Keep Of Envies Stinging, And Finde What Winde Serves To Advance An Honest Minde.