Bring me my rose-buds, drawer, come; So while I thus sit crown’d, I’ll drink the aged Cecubum, Until the roof turn round.
“My soul, what’s lighter than a feather? Wind. Than wind? The fire. And what than fire? The mind. What’s lighter than the mind? A thought. Than thought? This bubble world. What than this bubble? Nought.”
Francis Quarles
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