Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till

Every Thing That Grows / Holds In Perfection But A Little Moment.

What Our Contempts Do Often Hurl From Us, We Wish It Ours Again.

I Wasted Time, And Now Doth Time Waste Me; For Now Hath Time Made Me His Numbering Clock: My Thoughts Are Minutes; And With Sighs They Jar Their Watches On Unto Mine Eyes, The Outward Watch, Whereto My Finger, Like A Dial's Point, Is Pointing Still, In Cleansing Them From Tears. Now Sir, The Sound That Tells What Hour It Is Are Clamorous Goans, Which Strike Upon My Heart, Which Is The Bell: So Sighs And Tears And Groans Show Minutes, Times, And Hours.

Though Death Be Poor, It Ends A Mortal Woe.

Though It Make The Unskillful Laugh, Cannot But Make The Judicious Grieve.