Name:  
Email: 

	
Name:  
Email: 

Consider this small dust, here in the glass,
By atoms moved:
Could you believe that this the body was 
Of one that loved;
And in his mistress' flame playing like a fly,
Was turned to cinders by her eye:
Yes; and in death, as life unblessed,
To have it expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.