Lust-bred Diseases Rot Thee.

If They Be Two, They Are Two So As Stiff Twin Compasses Are Two, Thy Soul The Fixt Foot, Makes No Show To Move, But Doth, If The Other Do.

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

Twice Or Thrice Had I Loved Thee Before I Knew Thy Face Or Name, So In A Voice, So In A Shapeless Flame, Angels Affect Us Oft, And Worshiped Be.

This Extasie Doth Unperplex (we Said) And Tell Us What We Love, Wee See By This, It Was Not Sexe, Wee See, We Saw Not What Did Move: But As All Severall Soules Contain Mixture Of Things, They Know Not What, Love, These Mixt Souls, Doth Mixe Againe. Loves Mysteries In Soules Doe Grow, But Yet The Body Is His Booke.

Friends Are Ourselves.