Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.

Of all knowledge the wise and good seek most to know themselves.

I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good Friends

For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as tie heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me!

To take arms against a sea of troubles.

With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage.

Patch up thine old body for heaven.