For I am every dead thing In whom love wrought new alchemy For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness He ruined me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.

No man is an island unto himself.

I shall not live 'till I see God; and when I have seen Him, I shall never die.

Who are a little wise the best fools be.

That thou remember them, some claim as debt; I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

But he who loveliness within Hath found, all outward loathes, For he who color loves, and skin, Loves but their oldest clothes.