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.
My love though silly is more brave.
Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us often.
Humiliation is the beginning of sanctification.
ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee