Sleep Is Pain's Easiest Salve, And Doth

If Ever Any Beauty I Did See, Which I Desired, And Got, 'twas But A Dream Of Thee.

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 Roam Giddily, And Be Everywhere But At Home, Such Freedom Doth A Banishment Become.

Festive Alcohol Sometimes Leads To An Excess Of Honesty.

Nature's Lay Idiot, I Taught Thee To Love.