Lust-bred Diseases Rot Thee.

All Other Things To Their Destruction Draw, Only Our Love Hath No Decay.

At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow Your Trumpets, Angels.

Love, All Alike, No Season Knows, Nor Clime, Nor Hours, Days, Months, Which Are The Rags Of Time.

In Best Understandings, Sin Began, Angels Sinned First, Then Devils, And Then Man.

A Bride, Before A "good-night" Could Be Said, Should Vanish From Her Clothes Into Her Bed, As Souls From Bodies Steal, And Are Not Spied. But Now She's Laid; What Though She Be? Yet There Are More Delays, For Where Is He? He Comes And Passeth Through Sphere After Sphere; First Her Sheets, Then Her Arms, Then Anywhere. Let Not This Day, Then, But This Night Be Thine; Thy Day Was But The Eve To This, O Valentine.