This Fell Sergeant, Death, Is Strict In

Then Is It Sin To Rush Into The Secret House Of Death. Ere Death Dare Come To Us?

I, Thus Neglecting Worldly Ends, All Dedicated To Closeness And The Bettering Of My Mind.

It Is In Pardoning That We Are Pardoned.

Yet Mark'd I Where The Bolt Of Cupid Fell: It Fell Upon A Little Western Flower, Before Milk-white, Now Purple With Love's Wound, And Maidens Call It Love-in-idleness.

What A Piece Of Work Is A Man, How Noble In Reason, How Infinite In Faculties, In Form And Moving How Express And Admirable, In Action How Like An Angel, In Apprehension How Like A God.