Any Man's Death Diminishes Me, Because I

From Rest And Sleep, Which But Thy Pictures Be, Much Pleasure, Then From Thee Much More, Must Flow, And Soonest Our Best Men With Thee Do Go, Rest Of Their Bones, And Soul's Delivery.

At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow Your Trumpets, Angels.

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

That Thou Remember Them, Some Claim As Debt; I Think It Mercy, If Thou Wilt Forget.

If Ever Any Beauty I Did See, Which I Desired, And Got, 'twas But A Dream Of Thee.