I Throw Myself Down In My Chamber,

I Neglect God And His Angles For The Noise Of A Fly, For The Rattling Of A Coach, For The Whining Of A Door.

I Observe The Physician With The Same Diligence As The Disease.

We Can Die By It, If Not Live By Love, And If Unfit For Tombs And Hearse Our Legend Be, It Will Be Fit For Verse; And If No Peace Of Chronicle We Prove, We'll Build In Sonnet Pretty Rooms; As Well A Well Wrought Urne Becomes The Greatest Ashes, As Half-acre Tombs.

And Dare Love That, And Say So Too, And Forget The He And She.

Though Truth And Falsehood Be Near Twins, Yet Truth A Little Elder Is.