At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow

There Is No Health; Physicians Say That We, At Best, Enjoy But Neutrality.

All Our Life Is But A Going Out To The Place Of Execution, To Death.

Religion Is Not A Melancholy, The Spirit Of God Is Not A Damper.

Busy Old Fool, Unruly Sun, Why Dost Thou Thus Through Windows And Through Curtains Call On Us? Must To Thy Motions Lovers Seasons Run?

Goe And Catche A Falling Starre, Get With Child A Mandrake Root, Tell Me, Where All Past Yeares Are, Or Who Cleft The Divel's Foot. Teach Me To Hear Mermaides' Singing, Or To Keep Of Envies Stinging, And Finde What Winde Serves To Advance An Honest Minde.