My love though silly is more brave.

Women are like the arts, forced unto none, Open to all searchers, unprized, if unknown.

And new Philosophy calls all in doubt, the element of fire is quite put out; the Sun is lost, and the earth, and no mans wit can well direct him where to look for it.

As peace is of all goodness, so war is an emblem, a hieroglyphic, of all misery.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two better hemispheres, Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally; If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

The world is a great volume, and man the index of that book; even in the body of man, you may turn to the whole world.

Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.