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.

Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love.

Death is an ascension to a better library.

So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.

Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.

Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.