Thy Face Is Mine Eye, And Mine

Love, All Alike, No Season Knows, Nor Clime, Nor Hours, Days, Months, Which Are The Rags Of Time.

All Mankind Is One Volume. When One Man Dies, A Chapter Is Not Torn Out Of The Book, But Translated Into A Better Language. And Every Chapter Must Be Translated. God Employs Several Translators; Some Pieces Are Translated By Age, Some By Sickness, Some By War, Some By Justice. But God's Hand Shall Bind Up All Our Scattered Leaves Again For That Library Where Every Book Shall Live Open To One Another

The Heavens Rejoice In Motion, Why Should I Abjure My So Much Loved Variety.

If I Dream I Have You, I Have You, For All Our Joys Are But Fantastical.

For Love All Love Of Other Sights Controls And Makes One Little Room An Everywhere