Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
I observe the physician with the same diligence as the disease.
Be thine own palace, or the world’s thy jail.
God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice.
And new Philosophy calls all in doubt, the element of fire is quite put out; the Sun is lost, and the earth, and no mans wit can well direct him where to look for it.
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.
No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love.
Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.