Hark! She is called, the parting hour is come. Take thy farewell, poor world! Heaven must go home. . . .

Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers play, Yet long by the absence of the day.

All thy old woes shall now smile on thee, and thy pains sit bright on thee. All thy sorrows here shall shine and thy sufferings be divine; Tears shall take comfort and turn to gems and wrongs repent to diadems Even thy deaths shall live and new dress the soul that once they slew.

Heaven's great artillery.

Nothing speaks our grief so well as to speak nothing.

And when life's sweet fable ends, soul and body part like friends; no quarrels, murmurs, no delay; a kiss, a sigh, and so away.

Two went to pray? Better to say one went to brag, the other to pray.