Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it. No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by it and made fit for God.

Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.

I did best when I had least truth for my subjects.

Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.

Doth not a man die even in his birth? The breaking of prison is death, and what is our birth, but a breaking of prison?

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

There is in every miracle a silent chiding of the world, and a tacit reprehension of them who require, or who need miracles.