My love though silly is more brave.

That subtle knot which makes us man So must pure lovers souls descend T affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great Prince in prison lies.

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls **** All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.

Doth not a man die even in his birth? The breaking of prison is death, and what is our birth, but a breaking of prison?

Full nakedness! All my joys are due to thee, as souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be, to taste whole joys.

To an incompetent judge I must not lie, but I may be silent; to a competent I must answer.

I am a little world made cunningly.