Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright. - John Donne

At one blood labors to beget,
Spirits as like as it can,
Because such figures need to knit,
that subtle knot which makes us man.

TIS the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks ;
The sun is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rays ;
The world's whole sap is sunk ;
The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's-feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr'd ; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compared with me, who am their epitaph.

Changed loves are but changed sorts of meat,
And when he hath the kernel eat,
Who doth not fling away the shell?