But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust.

Because all men are apt to flatter themselves, to entertain the addition of other men's praises is most perilous.

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.

In a word, we may gather out of History a policy no less wise than I eternal; by the comparison and application of other mens fore-passed miseries with our own like errours and ill-deservings.

I can't write a book commensurate with Shakespeare, but I can write a book by me.

God is absolutely good; and so, assuredly, the cause of all that is good.

But true love is a durable fire, In the mind ever burning, Never sick, never old, never dead, From itself never turning.