At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls **** All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.

The distance from nothing to a little, is ten thousand times more, than from it to the highest degree in this life.

True joy is the earnest which we have of heaven, it is the treasure of the soul, and therefore should be laid in a safe place, and nothing in this world is safe to place it in.

True and false fears let us refrain, Let us love nobly, and live, and add again Years and years unto years, till we attain To write threescore ; this is the second of our reign.

I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.

Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it.

Good is not good, unless A thousand it possess, But doth waste with greediness.