Enjoyment always has a spoiling, otherwise it cannot be so.
Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were
This only is charity, to do all, all that we can.
Solitude is a torment which is not threatened in hell itself.
Can there be worse sickness, than to know that we are never well, nor can be so?
Our two souls therefore which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat.