Christ Beats His Drum, But He Does

I Find No Abhorring In My Appetite.

We Can Die By It, If Not Live By Love, And If Unfit For Tombs And Hearse Our Legend Be, It Will Be Fit For Verse; And If No Peace Of Chronicle We Prove, We'll Build In Sonnet Pretty Rooms; As Well A Well Wrought Urne Becomes The Greatest Ashes, As Half-acre Tombs.

God Affords No Man The Comfort, The False Comfort Of Atheism: He Will Not Allow A Pretending Atheist The Power To Flatter Himself, So Far, As To Seriously Think There Is No God.

Oh Do Not Die, For I Shall Hate All Women So, When Thou Art Gone.

I Wonder, By My Troth, What Thou And I Did, Till We Lov'd?