From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

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?

My love though silly is more brave.

Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.

Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!

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

The day breaks not, it is my heart.