No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent.

And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?

Between these two, the denying of sins, which we have done, and the bragging of sins, which we have not done, what a space, what a compass is there, for millions of millions of sins!

Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me; But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best, To use my self in jest Thus by feign'd deaths to die.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy, or charms, can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?

The world is a great volume, and man the index of that book; even in the body of man, you may turn to the whole world.

Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail.