Man Hath Weaved Out A

Religion Is Not A Melancholy, The Spirit Of God Is Not A Damper.

So, So, Break Off This Last Lamenting Kiss, Which Sucks Two Souls, And Vapors Both Away.

Love Was As Subtly Caught, As A Disease; But Being Got It Is A Treasure Sweet, Which To Defend Is Harder Than To Get: And Ought Not Be Profaned On Either Part, For Though 'tis Got By Chance, 'tis Kept By Art.

I Count All That Part Of My Life Lost Which I Spent Not In Communion With God, Or In Doing Good.

Thou Art Slave To Fate, Chance, Kings, And Desperate Men, And Dost With Poison, War, And Sickness Dwell, And Poppy, Or Charms, Can Make Us Sleep As Well, And Better Than Thy Stroke. Why Swell'st Thou Then?