Our faults are not seen, But past us; neither felt, but only in The punishment.
Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?
Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me; But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best, To use my self in jest Thus by feign'd deaths to die.
I shall die reading; since my book and a grave are so near.
Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.
The distance from nothing to a little, is ten thousand times more, than from it to the highest degree in this life.