Young Men Mend Not Their Sight By

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

Then Love Is Sin, And Let Me Sinful Be.

I Throw Myself Down In My Chamber, And I Call And Invite God And His Angels Thither.

How Imperfect Is All Our Knowledge!

Dull Sublunary Lovers' Love (whose Soul Is Sense) Cannot Admit Absence, Because It Doth Remove Those Things Which Elemented It.