For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.
When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?