A Mathematical Point Is The Most Indivisble

How Much Shall I Be Changed, Before I Am Changed!

Death Comes Equally To Us All, And Makes Us All Equal When It Comes.

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

Thou Art Slave To Fate, Chance, Kings, And Desperate Men, And Dost With Poison, War, And Sickness Dwell, And Poppy, Or Charms, Can Make Us Sleep As Well, And Better Than Thy Stroke. Why Swell'st Thou Then?

I Am A Little World Made Cunningly.