Solitude is a torment which is not threatened in hell itself.
To roam Giddily, and be everywhere but at home, Such freedom doth a banishment become.
Death is an ascension to a better library.
Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love.
Man hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.