When One Man Dies, One Chapter Is

If Ever Any Beauty I Did See, Which I Desired, And Got, 'twas But A Dream Of Thee.

He That Desires To Print A Book, Should Much More Desire, To Be A Book.

Love Is A Growing, Or Full Constant Light; And His First Minute, After Noon, Is Night.

At Most, The Greatest Persons Are But Great Wens, And Excrescences; Men Of Wit And Delightful Conversation, But As Morals For Ornament, Except They Be So Incorporated Into The Body Of The World That They Contribute Something To The Sustentation Of The Whole.

Die Not, Poore Death, Nor Yet Canst Thou Kill Me.