More Than Kisses, Letters Mingle Souls.

If I Lose At Play, I Blaspheme; If My Fellow Loses, He Blasphemes. So, God Is Always The Loser.

Can There Be Worse Sickness, Than To Know That We Are Never Well, Nor Can Be So?

Kind Pity Chokes My Spleen.

Yet Nothing Can To Nothing Fall, Nor Any Place Be Empty Quite; Therefore I Think My Breast Hath All Those Pieces Still, Though They Be Not Unite; And Now, As Broken Glasses Show A Hundred Lesser Faces, So My Rags Of Heart Can Like, Wish, And Adore, But After One Such Love, Can Love No More.

He That Desires To Print A Book, Should Much More Desire, To Be A Book.