There is nothing that God hath established in a constant course of nature, and which therefore is done every day, but would seem a Miracle, and exercise our admiration, if it were done but once.

All our life is but a going out to the place of execution, to death.

There is in every miracle a silent chiding of the world, and a tacit reprehension of them who require, or who need miracles.

That subtle knot which makes us man So must pure lovers souls descend T affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great Prince in prison lies.

I observe the physician with the same diligence as the disease.

Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.

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.