To know and feel all this and not have the words to express it makes a human a grave of his own thoughts.

Yet nothing can to nothing fall, Nor any place be empty quite; Therefore I think my breast hath all Those pieces still, though they be not unite; And now, as broken glasses show A hundred lesser faces, so My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore, But after one such love, can love no more.

Friends are ourselves.

Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?

If every gnat that flies were an archangel, all that could but tell me that there is a God; and the poorest worm that creeps tells me that.

O how feeble is man's power, that if good fortune fall, cannot add another hour, nor a lost hour recall!

God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.