If poisonous minerals, and if that tree, Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damned; alas; why should I be?

If every gnat that flies were an archangel, all that could but tell me that there is a God; and the poorest worm that creeps tells me that.

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

But he who loveliness within Hath found, all outward loathes, For he who color loves, and skin, Loves but their oldest clothes.

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.

No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.

Christ beats his drum, but he does not press men; Christ is served with voluntaries.