Can there be worse sickness, than to know that we are never well, nor can be so?

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.

Great sorrows cannot speak.

Full nakedness! All my joys are due to thee, as souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be, to taste whole joys.

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.

We love and understand talent; we wish it be within us. The truly gifted, those exceptional few, must wait for the world to catch up.

So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.