How should I avoid to be her slave, Whose subtle art invisibly can wreath My fetters of the very air I breath? - Andrew Marvell

Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame
To wand’ring mowers shows the way,
That in the night have lost their aim,
And after foolish fires do stray;

Your courteous lights in vain you waste,
Since Juliana here is come,
For she my mind hath so displac’d
That I shall never find my home.

My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis for object strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.

What wondrous life in this I lead
Ripe apples drop about my head