To Unpathed Waters, Undreamed Shores.

Some Grief Shows Much Of Love, But Much Of Grief Shows Still Some Want Of Wit.

Who Are The Violets Now That Strew The Lap Of The New-come Spring?

Tut, Man, One Fire Burns Out Another's Burning; One Pain Is Less'ned By Another's Anguish; Turn Giddy, And Be Holp By Backward Turning; One Desperate Grief Cures With Another's Languish.

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presagers Of My Speaking Breast, Who Plead For Love, And Look For Recompense, More Than That Tongue That More Hath More Expressed.

For Now They Kill Me With A Living Death.