All our life is but a going out to the place of execution, to death.
But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.
What gnashing is not a comfort, what gnawing of the worm is not a tickling, what torment is not a marriage bed to this damnation, to be secluded eternally, eternally, eternally from the sight of God?
I observe the physician with the same diligence as the disease.
He that desires to print a book, should much more desire, to be a book.
The Phoenix riddle hath more wit By us, we two being one, are it. So to one neutral thing both sexes fit, We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love.