When From Soft Love Proceeds The Deep

All Affectation; 'tis My Perfect Scorn; Object Of My Implacable Disgust.

Acquaint Thyself With God, If Thou Would'st Taste His Works. Admitted Once To His Embrace, Thou Shalt Perceive That Thou Was Blind Before: Thine Eye Shall Be Instructed; And Thine Heart Made Pure Shall Relish With Divine Delight Till Then Unfelt, What Hands Divine Have Wrought.

In A Fleshly Tomb, I Am Buried Above Ground.

And The Tear That Is Wiped With A Little Address, May Be Follow'd Perhaps By A Smile.

To Follow Foolish Precedents, And Wink With Both Our Eyes, Is Easier Than To Think.