I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat.

Tears such as angels weep.

Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss.

The starry cope Of heaven.

The redundant locks, robustious to no purpose, clustering down--vast monument of strength.

What is dark within me, illumine.

Hell has no benefits, only torture.