On A Huge Hill, Cragged, And Steep,

Reason Is Our Soul's Left Hand, Faith Her Right, By These We Reach Divinity

I Find No Abhorring In My Appetite.

Good Is Not Good, Unless A Thousand It Possess, But Doth Waste With Greediness.

Our Two Souls Therefore, Which Are One, Though I Must Go, Endure Not Yet A Breach, But An Expansion, Like Gold To Airy Thinness Beat. If They Be Two, They Are Two So As Stiff Twin Compasses Are Two; Thy Soul, The Fixed Foot, Makes No Show To Move, But Doth If Th' Other Do. And Though It In The Center Sit, Yet When The Other Far Doth Roam, It Leans And Hearkens After It, And Grows Erect, As That Comes Home. Suth Wilt Thou Be To Me, Who Must Like Th' Other Foot, Obliquely Run; Thy Firmness Makes My Circle Just, And Makes Me End Where I Began.

How Great Love Is, Presence Best Trial Makes, But Absence Tries How Long This Love Will Be.