The Rich Have No More Of The

That Soul That Can Reflect Upon Itself, Consider Itself, Is More Than So.

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

Old Grandsires Talk Of Yesterday With Sorrow, And For Our Children We Reserve Tomorrow.

Up Then, Fair Phoenix Bride, Frustrate The Sun; Thyself From Thine Affection Takest Warmth Enough, And From Thine Eye All Lesser Birds Will Take Their Jollity. Up, Up, Fair Bride, And Call Thy Stars From Out Their Several Boxes, Take Thy Rubies, Pearls, And Diamonds Forth, And Make Thyself A Constellation Of Them All; And By Their Blazing Signify That A Great Princess Falls, But Doth Not Die. Be Thou A New Star, That To Us Portends Ends Of Much Wonder; And Be Thou Those Ends.

To Be No Part Of Any Body, Is To Be Nothing.