Be More Than Man, Or Thou'rt Less

Solitude Is A Torment Which Is Not Threatened In Hell Itself.

All Kings, And All Their Favorites, All Glory Of Honors, Beauties, Wits, The Sun Itself, Which Makes Times, As They Pass, Is Elder By A Year, Now, Than It Was When Thou And I First One Another Saw: All Other Things, To Their Destruction Draw, Only Our Love Hath No Decay; This, No Tomorrow Hash, Nor Yesterday, Running, It Never Runs From Us Away, But Truly Keeps His First, Last, Everlasting Day.

If I Dream I Have You, I Have You, For All Our Joys Are But Fantastical.

Kind Pity Chokes My Spleen.

Women Are Like The Arts, Forced Unto None, Open To All Searchers, Unprized, If Unknown.