There Is No Creature Loves Me; And

Give Me Mine Angle, We'll To Th' River: There, My Music Playing Far Off, I Will Betray Tawny-finned Fishes. My Bended Hook Shall Pierce Their Slimy Jaws; And As I Draw Them Up, I'll Think Them Every One An Antony, And Say, 'ah, Ha! Are Caught!'

Be Still Prepared For Death: And Death Or Life Shall Thereby Be The Sweeter.

Love Will Not Be Spurred To What It Loathes

That Is My Home Of Love: If I Have Ranged, Like Him That Travels I Return Again, Just To The Time, Not With The Time Exchanged.

Evermore Thanks, The Exchequer Of The Poor