O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, millions of mischiefs.
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
There's a time for all things.
Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain, Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain.
Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?