Young Men Mend Not Their Sight By

One Short Sleep Past, We Wake Eternally, And Death Shall Be No More; Death, Thou Shalt Die.

The Phoenix Riddle Hath More Wit By Us, We Two Being One, Are It. So To One Neutral Thing Both Sexes Fit, We Die And Rise The Same, And Prove Mysterious By This Love.

On A Huge Hill, Cragged, And Steep, Truth Stands, And Hee That Will Reach Her, About Must, And About Must Goo.

It Is Too Little To Call Man A Little World; Except God, Man Is A Diminutive To Nothing.

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