Life itself is but the shadow of death, and souls departed but the shadows of the living: All things fall under this name. The Sun itself is but the dark simulacrum, and the light but the shadow of God.

For the world, I count it not an inn, but a hospital; and a place not to live, but to die in.

There is musick, even in the beauty and the silent note which Cupid strikes, far sweeter than the sound of an instrument.

We all labour against our own cure, for death is the cure of all diseases.

There is surely a piece of divinity in us, something was before the elements, and owes no homage unto the sun.

Had not almost every man suffered by the Press, or were not the tyranny thereof become universal, I had not wanted reason for complaint.

The noblest Digladiation is in the Theatre of ourselves.