Now God comes to thee, not as in the dawning of the day, not as in the bud of the spring, but as the sun at noon to illustrate all shadows, as the sheaves in harvest, to fill all penuries, all occasions invite his mercies, and all times are his seasons.

That which attempts to elevate the ugly to the level of beauty becomes neither; but an obscenity.

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's.

Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.

Death, thou shalt die.

I will not look upon the quickening sun, But straight her beauty to my sense shall run; The air shall note her soft, the fire most pure; Water suggest her clear, and the earth sure; Time shall not lose our passages.