O Time, Thou Must Untangle This, Not

The Tempter Or The Tempted, Who Sins Most? Ha! Not She: Nor Doth She Tempt: But It Is I That, Lying By The Violet In The Sun, Do As The Carrion Does, Not As The Flower, Corrupt With Virtuous Season.

Words Without Thoughts Never To Heaven Go.

For Man Is A Giddy Thing, And This Is My Conclusion.

I Will Instruct My Sorrows To Be Proud; For Grief Is Proud, And Makes His Owner Stoop.

What Showers Arise, Blown With The Windy Tempest Of My Heart