If I Lose At Play, I Blaspheme;

Humiliation Is The Beginning Of Sanctification.

If I Dream I Have You, I Have You, For All Our Joys Are But Fantastical.

No Man Is An Island, Entire Of Itself; Every Man Is A Piece Of The Continent.

Who Ever Comes To Shroud Me, Do Not Harm Nor Question Much That Subtle Wreath Of Hair, Which Crowns My Arm; The Mystery, The Sign You Must Not Touch, For 'tis My Outward Soul, Viceroy To That, Which Then To Heaven Being Gone, Will Leave This To Control, And Keep These Limbs, Her Provinces, From Dissolution.

The Distance From Nothing To A Little, Is Ten Thousand Times More, Than From It To The Highest Degree In This Life.