This Fell Sergeant, Death, Is Strict In

There's Nothing Ill Can Dwell In Such A Temple. If The Ill Spirit Have So Fair A House, Good Things Will Strive To Dwell With't

What Fates Impose, That Men Must Needs Abide; It Boots Not To Resist Both Wind And Tide.

I Have Unclasp'd To Thee The Book Even Of My Secret Soul.

Yet Mark'd I Where The Bolt Of Cupid Fell: It Fell Upon A Little Western Flower, Before Milk-white, Now Purple With Love's Wound, And Maidens Call It Love-in-idleness.

Rumour: "upon My Tongues Continual Slanders Ride, The Which In Every Language I Pronounce, Stuffing The Ears Of Men With False Reports.