To Be No Part Of Any Body,

Love's Mysteries In Souls Do Grow, But Yet The Body Is His Book.

Pleasure Is None, If Not Diversified.

All Our Life Is But A Going Out To The Place Of Execution, To Death.

One Short Sleep Past, We Wake Eternally, And Death Shall Be No More; Death, Thou Shalt Die.

Licence My Roving Hands, And Let Them Go Before, Behind, Between, Above, Below.