To beguile the time, look like the time.
Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
This is a way to kill a wife with kindness.
Dispute not with her: she is lunatic.
This thing of darkness I acknowlege mine. There is nothing more confining than the prison we don't know we are in.
But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.