All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.

The difference between the reason of man and the instinct of the beast is this, that the beast does but know, but the man knows that he knows.

We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; And if no peace of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnet pretty rooms; As well a well wrought urne becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs.

Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me; But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best, To use my self in jest Thus by feign'd deaths to die.

I count all that part of my life lost which I spent not in communion with God, or in doing good.

Women are like the arts, forced unto none, Open to all searchers, unprized, if unknown.

It is too little to call man a little world; Except God, man is a diminutive to nothing.