The earth, that is nature's mother, is her tomb.

A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.

Children wish fathers looked but with their eyes; fathers that children with their judgment looked; and either may be wrong.

Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.

So well thy words become thee as thy wounds.

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet Grace must still look so.

O sleep! O gentle sleep! Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sound of sweetest melody?