Tired With All These, For Restful Death

I Cannot, Nor I Will Not Hold Me Still; My Tongue, Though Not My Heart, Shall Have His Will.

. . . It Is Impossible You Should Take True Root But By The Fair Weather That You Make Yourself It Is Needful That You Frame The Season Of Your Own Harvest.

This Goodly Frame, The Earth, Seems To Me A Sterile Promontory, This Most Excellent Canopy, The Air, Look You, This Brave O'erhanging Firmament, This Majestical Roof Fretted With Golden Fire, Why, It Appears No Other Thing To Me Than A Foul And Pestilent Congregation Of Vapours. What A Piece Of Work Is A Man! How Noble In Reason! How Infinite In Faculty! In Form And Moving How Express And Admirable! In Action How Like An Angel! In Apprehension How Like A God! The Beauty Of The World! The Paragon Of Animals! And Yet, To Me, What Is This Quintessence Of Dust?

I Have Pursued Her, As Love Hath Pursued Me

Is Not Birth, Beauty, Good Shape, Discourse, Manhood, Learning, Gentleness, Virtue, Youth, Liberality, And Such Like, The Spice And Salt That Season A Man