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.

I neglect God and his angles for the noise of a fly, for the rattling of a coach, for the whining of a door.

Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.

I do not love a man, except I hate his vices, because those vices are the enemies, and the destruction of that friend whom I love.

The day breaks not, it is my heart.

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed.

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?