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.

Friends are ourselves.

This only is charity, to do all, all that we can.

This Extasie doth unperplex (We said) and tell us what we love, Wee see by this, it was not sexe, Wee see, we saw not what did move: But as all severall soules contain Mixture of things, they know not what, Love, these mixt souls, doth mixe againe. Loves mysteries in soules doe grow, But yet the body is his booke.

Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.

My love though silly is more brave.

Love was as subtly caught, as a disease; But being got it is a treasure sweet, which to defend is harder than to get: And ought not be profaned on either part, for though 'Tis got by chance, 'Tis kept by art.