Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.
'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's.
Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.
Death is an ascension to a better library.