We Will All Laugh At Gilded Butterflies.

Do Not Speak Like A Death's-head, Do Not Bid Me Remember Mine End.

Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, And Years, Pass'd Over To The End They Were Created, Would Bring White Hairs Unto A Quiet Grave. Ah, What A Life Were This!

Although The Last, Not Least.

Two Loves I Have, Of Comfort And Despair, Which Like Two Spirits Do Suggest Me Still: The Better Angel Is A Man Right Fair, The Worser Spirit A Woman Coloured Ill.

So Full Of Shapes Is Fancy