What is our life? A play of passion. Our mirth the music of division. Our mother's wombs the tyring houses be, Where we are drest for this short Comedy.

He that doth not as other men do, but endeavoureth that which ought to be done, shall thereby rather incur peril than preservation; for who so laboreth to be sincerely perfect and good shall necessarily perish, living among men that are generally evil.

There is nothing exempt from the peril of mutation; the earth, heavens, and whole world is thereunto subject.

Give my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon, My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope's true gage; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.

Men endure the losses that befall them by mere casualty with more patience than the damages they sustain by injustice.

The first draught serveth for health, the second for pleasure, the third for shame, the fourth for madness.

Our immortal souls, while righteous, are by God himself beautified with the title of his own image and similitude.