O How Feeble Is Man's Power, That

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

Oh Do Not Die, For I Shall Hate All Women So, When Thou Art Gone.

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.

If I Dream I Have You, I Have You, For All Our Joys Are But Fantastical.

Affliction Is A Treasure, And Scarce Any Man Hath Enough Of It. No Man Hath Affliction Enough That Is Not Matured And Ripened By It And Made Fit For God.