Solitude Is A Torment Which Is Not

For Love All Love Of Other Sights Controls And Makes One Little Room An Everywhere

Filled With Her Love, May I Be Rather Grown Mad With Much Heart, Than Idiot With None.

My World's Both Parts, And 'o! Both Parts Must Die.

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

True Joy Is The Earnest Which We Have Of Heaven, It Is The Treasure Of The Soul, And Therefore Should Be Laid In A Safe Place, And Nothing In This World Is Safe To Place It In.