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

We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; And if no peace of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnet pretty rooms; As well a well wrought urne becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs.

Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.

Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.

Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were

And new philosophy calls all in doubt, The element of fire is quite put out; The sun is lost, and the earth, and no man's wit Can well direct him where to look for it. And freely men confess that this world's spent, When in the planets, and the firmament They seek so many new; then see that this Is crumbled out again to his atomies. 'Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone; All just supply, and all relation: Prince, subject, Father, Son, are things forgot.

All our life is but a going out to the place of execution, to death.