At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.
Pleasure is none, if not diversified.
I shall die reading; since my book and a grave are so near.
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent.
Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks.
God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.