Sleep is pain's easiest salve, and doth fulfill all the offices of death, except to kill

“Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time

Love is growing, to full constant light; and his first minute, after noon, is night

Whoever loves, if he do not propose the right true end of love, he's one that goes to sea for nothing but to make him sick

I am two fools, I know, for loving, and for saying so in whining poetry.

Reason is our soul's left hand, Faith her right.

As soon as there was two there was pride

As peace is of all goodness, so war is an emblem, a hieroglyphic, of all misery

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent

God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath