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?

Poor heretics there be,Which think to establish dangerous constancy,But I have told them, ‘Since you will be true,You shall be true to them, who are false to you.

More than kisses, letters mingle souls.

What gnashing is not a comfort, what gnawing of the worm is not a tickling, what torment is not a marriage bed to this damnation, to be secluded eternally, eternally, eternally from the sight of God?

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

The sun must not set upon anger, much less will I let the sun set upon the anger of God towards me.

Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks.