Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.
That thou remember them, some claim as debt; I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.
Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
Of all the commentaries on the Scriptures, good examples are the best.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.