I Do Not Love A Man, Except

Nothing But Man Of All Envenomed Things, Doth Work Upon Itself, With Inborn Stings.

My World's Both Parts, And 'o! Both Parts Must Die.

For Love All Love Of Other Sights Controls And Makes One Little Room An Everywhere

We Can Die By It, If Not Live By Love, And If Unfit For Tombs And Hearse Our Legend Be, It Will Be Fit For Verse; And If No Peace Of Chronicle We Prove, We'll Build In Sonnet Pretty Rooms; As Well A Well Wrought Urne Becomes The Greatest Ashes, As Half-acre Tombs.

The Day Breaks Not, It Is My Heart.