How Low Am I, Thou

Covering Discretion With A Coat Of Folly.

With Love's Light Wings Did I O'er-perch These Walls, For Stony Limits Cannot Hold Love Out

I'll Make Death Love Me; For I Will Contend Even With His Pestilent Scythe.

Lend Less Than You Owe.

Our Very Eyes Are Sometimes, Like Our Judgments, Blind.