How Much Shall I Be Changed, Before

I Will Not Look Upon The Quickening Sun, But Straight Her Beauty To My Sense Shall Run; The Air Shall Note Her Soft, The Fire Most Pure; Water Suggest Her Clear, And The Earth Sure; Time Shall Not Lose Our Passages.

It Is Too Little To Call Man A Little World; Except God, Man Is A Diminutive To Nothing.

For God's Sake Hold Your Tongue, And Let Me Love.

'tis The Year's Midnight, And It Is The Day's.

How Imperfect Is All Our Knowledge!