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

Man hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.

I do not love a man, except I hate his vices, because those vices are the enemies, and the destruction of that friend whom I love.

How great love is, presence best trial makes, But absence tries how long this love will be.

Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.

Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?

For I am every dead thing In whom love wrought new alchemy For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness He ruined me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.