As states subsist in part by keeping their weaknesses from being known, so is it the quiet of families to have their chancery and their parliament within doors, and to compose and determine all emergent differences there.

Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.

Enjoyment always has a spoiling, otherwise it cannot be so.

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

I am a little world made cunningly.

To roam Giddily, and be everywhere but at home, Such freedom doth a banishment become.

For I am every dead thing In whom love wrought new alchemy For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness He ruined me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.