“Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.”

Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.

Our two souls therefore which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat.

Pleasure is none, if not diversified.

Love’s mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.

There is hook in every benefit, that sticks in his jaws that takes that benefit, and draws him whither the benefactor will.

I shall not live ’till I see God; and when I have seen Him, I shall never die.

Be more than man, or thou’rt less than an ant.

Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were.

Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.

If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.

In heaven it is always autumn.

One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Humiliation is the beginning of sanctification.

More than kisses, letters mingle souls.

How imperfect is all our knowledge!

As states subsist in part by keeping their weaknesses from being known, so is it the quiet of families to have their chancery and their parliament within doors, and to compose and determine all emergent differences there.