To Rage, To Lust, To Write To,

Can There Be Worse Sickness, Than To Know That We Are Never Well, Nor Can Be So?

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?

Yesternight The Sun Went Hence, And Yet Is Here Today.

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

No Man Is An Island, Entire Of Itself; Every Man Is A Piece Of The Continent, A Part Of The Main. If A Clod Be Washed Away By The Sea, Europe Is The Less, As Well As If A Promontory Were, As Well As If A Manor Of Thy Friend's Or Of Thine Own Were: Any Man's Death Diminishes Me, Because I Am Involved In Mankind, And Therefore Never Send To Know For Whom The Bells Tolls; It Tolls For Thee.