Filled with her love, may I be rather grown Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.
I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call and invite God and his angels thither.
My world's both parts, and 'o! Both parts must die.
When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language.
The Phoenix riddle hath more wit By us, we two being one, are it. So to one neutral thing both sexes fit, We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love.
That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.