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

Who ever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm; The mystery, the sign you must not touch, For 'tis my outward soul, Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone, Will leave this to control, And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

To know and feel all this and not have the words to express it makes a human a grave of his own thoughts.

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we lov'd?

I did best when I had least truth for my subjects.

The distance from nothing to a little, is ten thousand times more, than from it to the highest degree in this life.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.