A Breath Thou Art, Servile To All

Good Fortune Then! To Make Me Blest Or Cursed'st Among Men.

Though Fortune's Malice Overthrow My State, My Mind Exceeds The Compass Of Her Wheel.

Let Fame, That All Hunt After In Their Lives, Live Regist'red Upon Our Brazen Tombs And Then Grace Us In The Disgrace Of Death; When, Spite Of Cormorant Devouring Time, Th' Endeavor Of This Present Breath May Buy That Honor Which Shall Bate His Scythe's Keen Edge And Make Us Heirs Of All Eternity.

Of All The Flowers, Me Thinks A Rose Is Best.

What Power Is It Which Mounts My Love So High, That Makes Me See, And Cannot Feed Mine Eye