Send Home My Long Strayed Eyes To

I Wonder By My Troth, What Thou, And I Did, Till We Loved? Were We Not Weaned Till Then? But Sucked On Country Pleasures, Childishly? Or Snorted We In The Seven Sleepers' Den?

If They Be Two, They Are Two So As Stiff Twin Compasses Are Two, Thy Soul The Fixt Foot, Makes No Show To Move, But Doth, If The Other Do.

Love, All Alike, No Season Knows, Nor Clime, Nor Hours, Days, Months, Which Are The Rags Of Time.

Men Perish With Whispering Sins-nay, With Silent Sins, Sins That Never Tell The Conscience That They Are Sins, As Often With Crying Sins; And In Hell There Shall Meet As Many Men That Never Thought What Was Sin, As That Spent All Their Thoughts In The Compassing Of Sin.

On A Huge Hill, Cragged, And Steep, Truth Stands, And Hee That Will Reach Her, About Must, And About Must Goo.