Goe and catche a falling starre, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me, where all past yeares are, Or who cleft the Divel's foot. Teach me to hear Mermaides' singing, Or to keep of envies stinging, And finde What winde Serves to advance an honest minde.

O how feeble is man's power, that if good fortune fall, cannot add another hour, nor a lost hour recall!

Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.

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

Men perish with whispering sins-nay, with silent sins, sins that never tell the conscience that they are sins, as often with crying sins; and in hell there shall meet as many men that never thought what was sin, as that spent all their thoughts in the compassing of sin.

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

That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.