God made sun and moon to distinguish the seasons, and day and night; and we cannot have the fruits of the earth but in their seasons. But God hath made no decrees to distinguish the seasons of His mercies. In Paradise the fruits were ripe the first minute, and in heaven it is always autumn. His mercies are ever in their maturity.

All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.

But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.

Who are a little wise the best fools be.

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.

Great sorrows cannot speak.

No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.