He that desires to print a book, should much more desire, to be a book.

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

God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice.

As virtuous men pass mildly away, and whisper to their souls to go, whilst some of their sad friends do say, the breath goes now, and some say no.

...Whatever dies was not mixed equally, If our two loves be one Or thou and I love so alike That none can slacken, none can die.

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

There is no health; physicians say that we, at best, enjoy but neutrality.