There Is No Health; Physicians Say That

No Man Is An Island Unto Himself.

Sweetest Love, I Do Not Go, For Weariness Of Thee, Nor In Hope The World Can Show A Fitter Love For Me; But Since That I Must Die At Last, 'tis Best, To Use My Self In Jest Thus By Feign'd Deaths To Die.

Death Is An Ascension To A Better Library.

Since You Would Save None Of Me, I Bury Some Of You.

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were