Reason is our soul's left hand, Faith her right, By these we reach divinity
Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow. Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.
Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it.
More than kisses, letters mingle souls.
He that desires to print a book, should much more desire, to be a book.