Other Men's Crosses Are Not My Crosses.

From Rest And Sleep, Which But Thy Pictures Be, Much Pleasure, Then From Thee Much More, Must Flow, And Soonest Our Best Men With Thee Do Go, Rest Of Their Bones, And Soul's Delivery.

On A Huge Hill, Cragged, And Steep, Truth Stands, And Hee That Will Reach Her, About Must, And About Must Goo.

To Rage, To Lust, To Write To, To Commend, All Is The Purlieu Of The God Of Love.

How Great Love Is, Presence Best Trial Makes, But Absence Tries How Long This Love Will Be.

The Distance From Nothing To A Little, Is Ten Thousand Times More, Than From It To The Highest Degree In This Life.