The heavens rejoice in motion, why should I Abjure my so much loved variety.

But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed.

And now good morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love, all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room, an everywhere. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone, Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown, Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

True joy is the earnest which we have of heaven, it is the treasure of the soul, and therefore should be laid in a safe place, and nothing in this world is safe to place it in.

What if this present were the world's last night?

Nature hath no goal though she hath law.