To Roam Giddily, And Be

Be More Than Man, Or Thou'rt Less Than An Ant.

I Throw Myself Down In My Chamber, And I Call And Invite God And His Angels Thither.

Thy Face Is Mine Eye, And Mine Is Thine.

Verse Hath A Middle Nature: Heaven Keeps Souls, The Grave Keeps Bodies, Verse The Fame Enrols.

Thou Art Slave To Fate, Chance, Kings, And Desperate Men, And Dost With Poison, War, And Sickness Dwell, And Poppy, Or Charms, Can Make Us Sleep As Well, And Better Than Thy Stroke. Why Swell'st Thou Then?