My love though silly is more brave.

Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.

Man hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.

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

Now God comes to thee, not as in the dawning of the day, not as in the bud of the spring, but as the sun at noon to illustrate all shadows, as the sheaves in harvest, to fill all penuries, all occasions invite his mercies, and all times are his seasons.

That thou remember them, some claim as debt; I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.

The rich have no more of the kingdom of heaven than they have purchased of the poor by their alms.