The day For whose returns, and many, all these pray; And so do I.
How ready is heaven to those that pray!
It strikes! one, two, Three, four, five, six. Enough, enough, dear watch, Thy pulse hath beat enough. Now sleep and rest; Would thou could'st make the time to do so too; I'll wind thee up no more.
True gladness doth not always speak; joy, bred and born but in the tongue, is weak.
What excellent fools religion makes of men.
The man that is once hated, both his good and his evil deeds oppress him.