Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish; Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.
It is only through mystery and madness that the soul is revealed.
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.
Humility, that low, sweet root, from which all heavenly virtues shoot.
A pretty wife is something for the fastidious vanity of a roue to retire upon.
Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must print.