Keep Us, Lord, So Awake

And Swear No Where Lives A Woman True, And Fair.

Whilst My Physicians By Their Love Are Grown Cosmographers, And I Their Map, Who Lie Flat On This Bed.

For I Am Every Dead Thing In Whom Love Wrought New Alchemy For His Art Did Express A Quintessence Even From Nothingness, From Dull Privations, And Lean Emptiness He Ruined Me, And I Am Re-begot Of Absence, Darkness, Death; Things Which Are Not.

Young Men Mend Not Their Sight By Using Old Men's Spectacles.

God Himself Took A Day To Rest In, And A Good Man's Grave Is His Sabbath.