Full nakedness! All my joys are due to thee, as souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be, to taste whole joys.
But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.
In heaven it is always autumn.
If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.
Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were
As virtuous men pass mildly away, and whisper to their souls to go, whilst some of their sad friends do say, the breath goes now, and some say no.