There grows No herb of help to heal a coward heart.

My loss may shine yet goodlier than your gain When Time and God give judgment.

Today will die tomorrow.

Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day that we die.

To wipe off the froth of falsehood from the foaming lips of inebriated virtue, when fresh from the sexless orgies of morality and reeling from the delirious riot of religion, may doubtless be a charitable office.

Sorrow, on wing through the world for ever, Here and there for awhile would borrow Rest, if rest might haply deliver Sorrow.

I dore not always touch her, lest the kiss Leave my lips charred. Yea, Lord, a little bliss, Brief, bitter bliss, one hath for a great sin; Nathless thou knowest how sweet a thing it is.