Poor Intricated Soul! Riddling, Perplexed, Labyrinthical Soul!

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

Sweetest Love, I Do Not Go, For Weariness Of Thee, Nor In Hope The World Can Show A Fitter Love For Me; But Since That I Must Die At Last, 'tis Best, To Use My Self In Jest Thus By Feign'd Deaths To Die.

Tis True, 'tis Day; What Though It Be? O Wilt Thou Therefore Rise From Me? Why Should We Rise, Because 'tis Light? Did We Lie Down, Because 'twas Night? Love Which In Spite Of Darkness Brought Us Hither Should In Despite Of Light Keep Us Together.

Death Comes Equally To Us All, And Makes Us All Equal When It Comes.

I Shall Die Reading; Since My Book And A Grave Are So Near.