I find no abhorring in my appetite.
All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
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.
My love though silly is more brave.
Filled with her love, may I be rather grown Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.
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.
Our faults are not seen, But past us; neither felt, but only in The punishment.
At most, the greatest persons are but great wens, and excrescences; men of wit and delightful conversation, but as morals for ornament, except they be so incorporated into the body of the world that they contribute something to the sustentation of the whole.
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.
Old grandsires talk of yesterday with sorrow, And for our children we reserve tomorrow.
I neglect God and his angles for the noise of a fly, for the rattling of a coach, for the whining of a door.
Though truth and falsehood be Near twins, yet truth a little elder is.
Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it. No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by it and made fit for God.
But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.
In best understandings, sin began, Angels sinned first, then Devils, and then Man.
True and false fears let us refrain, Let us love nobly, and live, and add again Years and years unto years, till we attain To write threescore ; this is the second of our reign.
And swear No where Lives a woman true, and fair.
There is no health; physicians say that we, at best, enjoy but neutrality.
The difference between the reason of man and the instinct of the beast is this, that the beast does but know, but the man knows that he knows.
I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den?
Can there be worse sickness, than to know that we are never well, nor can be so?
Between these two, the denying of sins, which we have done, and the bragging of sins, which we have not done, what a space, what a compass is there, for millions of millions of sins!
Man hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two better hemispheres, Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally; If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
If every gnat that flies were an archangel, all that could but tell me that there is a God; and the poorest worm that creeps tells me that.
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