In heaven it is always autumn.

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

Love is a growing, or full constant light; And his first minute, after noon, is night.

Women are like the arts, forced unto none, Open to all searchers, unprized, if unknown.

Tis true, 'tis day; what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise, because 'tis light? Did we lie down, because 'twas night? Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither Should in despite of light keep us together.

Great sorrows cannot speak.

Doth not a man die even in his birth? The breaking of prison is death, and what is our birth, but a breaking of prison?