No Man Is An Island Unto Himself.

How Great Love Is, Presence Best Trial Makes, But Absence Tries How Long This Love Will Be.

Thy Face Is Mine Eye, And Mine Is Thine.

Whilst My Physicians By Their Love Are Grown Cosmographers, And I Their Map, Who Lie Flat On This Bed.

My Face In Thine Eye, Thine In Mine Appears, And True Plain Hearts Do In The Faces Rest; Where Can We Find Two Better Hemispheres, Without Sharp North, Without Declining West? Whatever Dies, Was Not Mix'd Equally; If Our Two Loves Be One, Or, Thou And I Love So Alike, That None Do Slacken, None Can Die.

Pleasure Is None, If Not Diversified.