Friends are ourselves

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.

Great Destiny, the commissary of God.

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.

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

I sing the progress of a deathless soul.

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