Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.

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.

I count all that part of my life lost which I spent not in communion with God, or in doing good.

That which attempts to elevate the ugly to the level of beauty becomes neither; but an obscenity.

I will not look upon the quickening sun, But straight her beauty to my sense shall run; The air shall note her soft, the fire most pure; Water suggest her clear, and the earth sure; Time shall not lose our passages.

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.

For I am every dead thing In whom love wrought new alchemy For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness He ruined me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.