And, re-assembling our afflicted powers, consult how we may henceforth most offend.

Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades High over-arch'd imbower.

Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.

Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell.

How gladly would I meet mortality, my sentence, and be earth in sensible! How glad would lay me down, as in my mother's lap! There I should rest, and sleep secure.

Smiles from reason flow, To brute deny'd, and are of love the food.

It is not good that man should be alone. ... Hitherto all things that have been named, were approved of God to be very good: loneliness is the first thing which God's eye named not good: whether it be a thing, or the want of something, I labour not.