In Black Ink My Love May Still

Tired With All These For Restful Death I Cry, As To Behold Desert A Beggar Born, And Needy Nothing Trimmed In Jollity, And Purest Faith Unhappily Forsworn.

Crowns Have Their Compass-length Of Days Their Date- Triumphs Their Tomb-felicity, Her Fate- Of Nought But Earth Can Earth Make Us Partaker, But Knowledge Makes A King Most Like His Maker.

Life... Is A Paradise To What We Know Of Death.

Lechery, Lechery; Still, Wars And Lechery: Nothing Else Holds Fashion.

I Heard A Bird So Sing, Whose Music, To My Thinking, Pleased The King.