Sleep is pain's easiest salve, and doth fulfil All offices of death, except to kill.
Yesternight the sun went hence, And yet is here today.
That thou remember them, some claim as debt; I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.
There is in every miracle a silent chiding of the world, and a tacit reprehension of them who require, or who need miracles.
I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call and invite God and his angels thither.
Lust-bred diseases rot thee.
Never start with tomorrow to reach eternity. Eternity is not being reached by small steps.
Who ever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm; The mystery, the sign you must not touch, For 'tis my outward soul, Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone, Will leave this to control, And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.
It is too little to call man a little world; Except God, man is a diminutive to nothing.
Twice or thrice had I loved thee before I knew thy face or name, so in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, angels affect us oft, and worshiped be.
We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; And if no peace of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnet pretty rooms; As well a well wrought urne becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs.
And to 'scape stormy days, I choose an everlasting night.
I find no abhorring in my appetite.
As virtuous men pass mildly away, and whisper to their souls to go, whilst some of their sad friends do say, the breath goes now, and some say no.
My love though silly is more brave.
Kind pity chokes my spleen.
All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
Our faults are not seen, But past us; neither felt, but only in The punishment.
To an incompetent judge I must not lie, but I may be silent; to a competent I must answer.
How many times go we to comedies, to masques, to places of great and noble resort, nay even to church only to see the company.
Whoever loves, if he do not propose The right true end of love, he's one that goes To sea for nothing but to make him sick.
Filled with her love, may I be rather grown Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.
Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
Old grandsires talk of yesterday with sorrow, And for our children we reserve tomorrow.
Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
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