In Heaven It Is Always Autumn.

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

I Am A Little World Made Cunningly.

Verse Hath A Middle Nature: Heaven Keeps Souls, The Grave Keeps Bodies, Verse The Fame Enrols.

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

All Our Life Is But A Going Out To The Place Of Execution, To Death.