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?
Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.
Friends are ourselves.
Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.
Reason is our soul's left hand, Faith her right, By these we reach divinity
Sleep with clean hands, either kept clean all day by integrity or washed clean at night by repentance.