What gnashing is not a comfort, what gnawing of the worm is not a tickling, what torment is not a marriage bed to this damnation, to be secluded eternally, eternally, eternally from the sight of God?
Though truth and falsehood be Near twins, yet truth a little elder is.
I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call and invite God and his angels thither.
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we lov'd?
Nature hath no goal though she hath law.
Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?