For I Am Nothing If

No Longer Mourn For Me When I Am Dead Than You Shall Hear The Surly Sullen Bell Give Warning To The World That I Am Fled From This Vile World With Vilest Worms To Dwell: Nay, If You Read This Line, Remember Not The Hand That Writ It, For I Love You So, That I In Your Sweet Thoughts Would Be Forgot, If Thinking On Me Then Should Make You Woe. O! If, I Say, You Look Upon This Verse When I Perhaps Compounded Am With Clay, Do Not So Much As My Poor Name Rehearse; But Let Your Love Even With My Life Decay; Lest The Wise World Should Look Into Your Moan, And Mock You With Me After I Am Gone.

An Angel; Or, If Not, An Earthly Paragon.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.

In God's Name Cheerly On, Courageous Friends, To Reap The Harvest Of Perpetual Peace By This One Bloody Trial Of Sharp War.

I Think Thy Horse Will Sooner Con An Oration Than Thou Learn A Prayer Without Book.