We should be wary what persecution we raise against the living labors of public men, how we spill that seasoned life of man, preserved and stored up in books, since we see a kind of homicide may be thus committed, sometimes a martyrdom; and if it extend to the whole impression, a kind of massacre, whereof the execution ends not in the slaying of an elemental life, but strikes at the ethereal and fifth essence, the breath of reason itself; slays an immortality rather than a life.

Morn, Wak'd by the circling hours, with rosy hand Unbarr'd the gates of light.

Our state cannot be severed, we are one, One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.

What is dark within me, illumine.

What hath night to do with sleep?

A grateful mind/ By owing owes not, but still pays, at once/ Indebted and discharg'd.

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.