God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.
And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?
How much shall I be changed, before I am changed!
For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love.
Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were
Great sorrows cannot speak.