O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
This thought is as a death.
My crown is in my heart, not on my head.
Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.
The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.
My pride fell with my fortunes.