Though Truth And Falsehood Be Near Twins,

Death, Thou Shalt Die.

Busy Old Fool, Unruly Sun, Why Dost Thou Thus, Through Windows, And Through Curtains, Call On Us? Must To Thy Motions Lovers'seasons Run? Saucy Pedantic Wretch, Go Chide Late Schoolboys, And Sour Prentices, Go Tell Court-huntsmen That The King Will Ride, Call Countryants To Harvest Offices; Love, All Alike, No Season Knows, Nor Clime, Nor Hours, Days, Months, Which Are The Rags Of Time.

What If This Present Were The World's Last Night?

That Soul That Can Reflect Upon Itself, Consider Itself, Is More Than So.

Great Sorrows Cannot Speak.