Your Date Is Better In

Love, Whose Month Is Ever May, Spied A Blossom Passing Fair, Playing In The Wanton Air: Through The Velvet Leaves The Wind, All Unseen Can Passage Find; That The Lover, Sick To Death, Wish'd Himself The Heaven's Breath.

Nothing Is So Common As The Wish To Be Remarkable.(attributed To)

Beggar That I Am, I Am Even Poor In Thanks

Self-love, My Liege, Is Not So Vile A Sin, As Self-neglecting.

What Should Such Fellows As I Do Crawling Between Earth And Heaven?