I count all that part of my life lost which I spent not in communion with God, or in doing good.

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.

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent.

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

He must pull out his own eyes, and see no creature, before he can say, he sees no God; He must be no man, and quench his reasonable soul, before he can say to himself, there is no God.

I have done one braver thing than all the Worthies did, and yet a braver thence doth spring, which is, to keep that hid.

Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.