And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?

If I lose at play, I blaspheme; if my fellow loses, he blasphemes. So, God is always the loser.

No man is an island unto himself.

If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy, or charms, can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?

Men perish with whispering sins-nay, with silent sins, sins that never tell the conscience that they are sins, as often with crying sins; and in hell there shall meet as many men that never thought what was sin, as that spent all their thoughts in the compassing of sin.

I long to talk with some old lover's ghost, Who died before the god of love was born.