Death is an ascension to a better library.
Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love.
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we lov'd?
I count all that part of my life lost which I spent not in communion with God, or in doing good.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy, or charms, can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?
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.