But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.

All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy, or charms, can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?

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.

Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.

This only is charity, to do all, all that we can.

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