The Day Breaks Not, It Is My

I Throw Myself Down In My Chamber, And I Call And Invite God And His Angels Thither.

He That Desires To Print A Book, Should Much More Desire, To Be A Book.

Doth Not A Man Die Even In His Birth? The Breaking Of Prison Is Death, And What Is Our Birth, But A Breaking Of Prison?

Man Hath Weaved Out A Net, And This Net Throwne Upon The Heavens, And Now They Are His Own.

Dull Sublunary Lovers' Love (whose Soul Is Sense) Cannot Admit Absence, Because It Doth Remove Those Things Which Elemented It.