That Soul That Can Reflect Upon Itself,

Love Was As Subtly Caught, As A Disease; But Being Got It Is A Treasure Sweet, Which To Defend Is Harder Than To Get: And Ought Not Be Profaned On Either Part, For Though 'tis Got By Chance, 'tis Kept By Art.

I Am A Little World Made Cunningly.

Full Nakedness! All My Joys Are Due To Thee, As Souls Unbodied, Bodies Unclothed Must Be, To Taste Whole Joys.

I Long To Talk With Some Old Lover's Ghost, Who Died Before The God Of Love Was Born.

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