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.

Sleep with clean hands, either kept clean all day by integrity or washed clean at night by repentance.

No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.

Goe and catche a falling starre, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me, where all past yeares are, Or who cleft the Divel's foot. Teach me to hear Mermaides' singing, Or to keep of envies stinging, And finde What winde Serves to advance an honest minde.

Death is an ascension to a better library.

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

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.