For love all love of other sights controls and makes one little room an everywhere
I shall die reading; since my book and a grave are so near.
Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.
Thy face is mine eye, and mine is thine.
Our critical day is not the very day of our death; but the whole course of our life.
Death, thou shalt die.
Take me to you, imprison me, for I, except you enthrall me, never shall be free, nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
This only is charity, to do all, all that we can.
I am a little world made cunningly.
. . . Change is the nursery Of musicke, joy, life and eternity.
Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?
Christ beats his drum, but he does not press men; Christ is served with voluntaries.
To know and feel all this and not have the words to express it makes a human a grave of his own thoughts.
Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.
Man is not only a contributory creature, but a total creature; he does not only make one, but he is all; he is not a piece of the world, but the world itself, and next to the glory of God, the reason why there is a world.
There is hook in every benefit, that sticks in his jaws that takes that benefit, and draws him whither the benefactor will.
Young men mend not their sight by using old men's spectacles.
I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call in, and invite God, and his Angels thither, and when they are there, I neglect God and his Angels, for the noise of a fly, for the rattling of a coach, for the whining of a door.
In heaven it is always autumn.
Eternity is not an everlasting flux of time, but time is as a short parenthesis in a long period.
Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.
In the first minute that my soul is infused, the Image of God is imprinted in my soul; so forward is God in my behalf, and so early does he visit me.
Solitude is a torment which is not threatened in hell itself.
The distance from nothing to a little, is ten thousand times more, than from it to the highest degree in this life.
Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me; But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best, To use my self in jest Thus by feign'd deaths to die.
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