Love's Gentle Spring Doth Always Fresh Remain.

The Summer's Flow'r Is To The Summer Sweet, Though To Itself It Only Live And Die' But If That Flow'r With Base Infection Meet, The Basest Weed Outbraves His Dignity: For Sweetest Things Turn Sourest By Their Deeds; Lilies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

When I Was At Home I Was In A Better Place

Rude Am I In My Speech, And Little Blessed With The Soft Phrase Of Peace.

And Why Not Death Rather Than Living Torment? To Die Is To Be Banish'd From Myself; And Silvia Is Myself: Banish'd From Her Is Self From Self: A Deadly Banishment!

Every Thing That Grows / Holds In Perfection But A Little Moment.