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.

The difference between the reason of man and the instinct of the beast is this, that the beast does but know, but the man knows that he knows.

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.

Oft from new truths, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men we know.

Our two souls therefore which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat.

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.

My love though silly is more brave.