I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.
There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
Sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
My crown is in my heart, not on my head.
Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.
The present eye praises the present object.