Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.
How great love is, presence best trial makes, But absence tries how long this love will be.
I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.
Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it.
In heaven it is always autumn.
Doth not a man die even in his birth? The breaking of prison is death, and what is our birth, but a breaking of prison?