Art is the most passionate orgy within man's grasp.

Goe and catche a falling starre, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me, where all past yeares are, Or who cleft the Divel's foot. Teach me to hear Mermaides' singing, Or to keep of envies stinging, And finde What winde Serves to advance an honest minde.

How much shall I be changed, before I am changed!

No man is an island unto himself.

Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

As states subsist in part by keeping their weaknesses from being known, so is it the quiet of families to have their chancery and their parliament within doors, and to compose and determine all emergent differences there.

Solitude is a torment which is not threatened in hell itself.