But he who loveliness within Hath found, all outward loathes, For he who color loves, and skin, Loves but their oldest clothes.

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.

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?

I have done one braver thing than all the Worthies did, and yet a braver thence doth spring, which is, to keep that hid.

Great sorrows cannot speak.

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 they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two, Thy soul the fixt foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if the other do.