O! For A Muse Of Fire, That

To Unpathed Waters, Undreamed Shores.

Let's Meet As Little As We Can

Death, As The Psalmist Saith, Is Certain To All, All Shall Die.

If I Could Write The Beauty Of Your Eyes And In Fresh Numbers Number All Your Graces, The Age To Come Would Say, 'this Poet Lies; Such Heavenly Touches Ne'er Touch'd Earthly Faces.'

All That Glisters Is Not Gold; Often Have You Heard That Told: Many A Man His Life Hath Sold But My Outside To Behold: Gilded Tombs Do Worms Enfold.