What Feeds Me Destroys Me.

My Men Like Satyrs Grazing On The Lawns, / Shall With Their Goat-feet Dance An Antic Hay.

Come Live With Me And Be My Love, And We Will All The Pleasures Prove, That Valleys, Groves, Hills, And Fields, Woods, Or Steepy Mountain Yields.

Things That Are Not At All, Are Never Lost.

Hell Strives With Grace For Conquest In My Breast. What Shall I Do To Shun The Snares Of Death?

What Art Thou Faustus, But A Man Condemned To Die?