On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.

The old order changeth, yielding place to new, and god fulfills himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.

if you don't concentrate on what you are doing then the thing that you are doing is not what you are thinking.

I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.

What's up is faith, what's down is heresy.

Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.