Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?

I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call and invite God and his angels thither.

True joy is the earnest which we have of heaven, it is the treasure of the soul, and therefore should be laid in a safe place, and nothing in this world is safe to place it in.

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

Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains, call on us? Must to thy motions lovers'seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late schoolboys, and sour prentices, Go tell court-huntsmen that the King will ride, Call countryants to harvest offices; Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Can there be worse sickness, than to know that we are never well, nor can be so?

Oft from new truths, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men we know.