More than kisses, letters mingle souls.

How great love is, presence best trial makes, But absence tries how long this love will be.

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed.

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.

God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.

God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice.

And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?