O How Feeble Is Man's

Filled With Her Love, May I Be Rather Grown Mad With Much Heart, Than Idiot With None.

Poor Intricated Soul! Riddling, Perplexed, Labyrinthical Soul!

Sweetest Love, I Do Not Go, For Weariness Of Thee, Nor In Hope The World Can Show A Fitter Love For Me; But Since That I Must Die At Last, 'tis Best, To Use My Self In Jest Thus By Feign'd Deaths To Die.

One Short Sleep Past, We Wake Eternally, And Death Shall Be No More; Death, Thou Shalt Die.

Pleasure Is None, If Not Diversified.