To Be In Anger Is Impiety, But

Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None Of Our Own

All The Contagion Of The South Light On You, You Shames Of Rome! You Herd Of--boils And Plagues Plaster You O'er; That You May Be Abhorr'd Further Than Seen, And One Infect Another Against The Wind A Mile!

The Violence Of Either Grief Or Joy, Their Own Enactures With Themselves Destroy.

Beauty Too Rich For Use, For Earth Too Dear.

I Fill Up A Place, Which May Be Better... When I Have Made It Empty.