The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.

Tis but a base, ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light; Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.

Happy thou art not; for what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get; and what thou hast, forgettest.

The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes.

A flock of blessings light upon thy back

. . from this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done.