In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
When holy and devout religious men are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence; so sweet is zealous contemplation.
O, how full of briers is this working-day world!
A Loud Laugh Bespeaks a Vacant Mind!
My love is thaw'd; Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was