Our two souls therefore which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow. Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed.

Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?

I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call and invite God and his angels thither.

Who are a little wise the best fools be.

And dare love that, and say so too, And forget the He and She.