Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail.

As virtuous men pass mildly away, and whisper to their souls to go, whilst some of their sad friends do say, the breath goes now, and some say no.

Enjoyment always has a spoiling, otherwise it cannot be so.

One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

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.

Twice or thrice had I loved thee before I knew thy face or name, so in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, angels affect us oft, and worshiped be.

Women are like the arts, forced unto none, Open to all searchers, unprized, if unknown.