As well a well-wrought urn becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs. - John Donne

We understood Her by her sight; her pure, and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, That one might almost say, her body thought.

Love is a growing, or full constant light,
And his first minute, after noon, is night.

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 feigned deaths to die.