That which we call life, is but hebdomada mortium, a week of death,…

I sing the progress of a deathless soul.

So, of a lone unhaunted place possess’d, Did this soul’s second inn, built by the guest, This living buried man, this quiet mandrake, rest.

Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls; For, thus friends absent speak.

And seeing the snail, which everywhere doth roam, Carrying his own house still, still is at home, Follow (for he is easy paced) this snail, Be thine own palace, or the world’s thy gaol.

Great Destiny, the commissary of God.

Nature’s great masterpiece, an elephant, The only harmless great thing.