Twice or thrice had I loved thee before I knew thy face or name, so in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, angels affect us oft, and worshiped be.

If every gnat that flies were an archangel, all that could but tell me that there is a God; and the poorest worm that creeps tells me that.

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?

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

And new philosophy calls all in doubt, The element of fire is quite put out; The sun is lost, and the earth, and no man's wit Can well direct him where to look for it. And freely men confess that this world's spent, When in the planets, and the firmament They seek so many new; then see that this Is crumbled out again to his atomies. 'Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone; All just supply, and all relation: Prince, subject, Father, Son, are things forgot.

O how feeble is man's power, that if good fortune fall, cannot add another hour, nor a lost hour recall!

What if this present were the world's last night?