He That Desires To Print A Book,

When My Mouth Shall Be Filled With Dust, And The Worm Shall Feed, And Feed Sweetly Upon Me, When The Ambitious Man Shall Have No Satisfaction If The Poorest Alive Tread Upon Him, Nor The Poorest Receive Any Contentment In Being Made Equal To Princes, For They Shall Be Equal But In Dust.

Oft From New Truths, And New Phrase, New Doubts Grow, As Strange Attire Aliens The Men We Know.

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

That Soul That Can Reflect Upon Itself, Consider Itself, Is More Than So.

Take Me To You, Imprison Me, For I, Except You Enthrall Me, Never Shall Be Free, Nor Ever Chaste, Except You Ravish Me.