“A circle cannot fill a triangle, so neither can the whole world, if it were to be compassed, the heart of man; a man may as easily fill a chest with grace as the heart with gold. The air fills not the body, neither doth money the covetous mind of man.”

How many perils doe enfold The righteous man to make him daily fall.

For next to Death is Sleepe to be compared; Therefore his house is unto his annext: Here Sleepe, ther Richesse, and hel-gate them both betwext.

Ill can he rule the great that cannot reach the small.

The gentle mind by gentle deeds is known, For a man by nothing is so well betrayed As by his manners.

Waking love suffereth no sleepe: Say, that raging love dothe appall the weake stomacke: Say, that lamenting love marreth the musicall.

All love is sweet Given or returned And its familiar voice wearies not ever.

This iron world bungs down the stoutest hearts to lowest state; for misery doth bravest minds abate.

Thankfulness is the tune of angels.

Together linkt with adamantine chains.

For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.

Those that were up themselves, kept others low; Those that were low themselves, held others hard; He suffered them to ryse or greater grow; But every one did strive his fellow down to throw.

No dainty flower or herbs that grows on ground, No arborett with painted blossoms drest And smelling sweet, but there it might be found To bud out fair, and throw her sweet smells all around.

Fondnesse it were for any being free, To covet fetters, though they golden bee.

Who would ever care to do brave deed, Or strive in virtue others to excel, If none should yield him his deserved meed Due praise, that is the spur of doing well? For if good were not praised more than ill, None would choose goodness of his own free will.

Man’s wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.

The fish once caught, new bait will hardly bite.

The soul is the effect and instrument of a political anatomy; the soul is the prison of the body.

Feeling, the strength of the roots beneath my body I stand here planted in the soil of all that came before me and all that will follow.

Bodies are real entities. Surfaces and lines are but fictitious entities. A surface without depth, a line without thickness, was never seen by any man; no; nor can any conception be seriously formed of its existence.

If only were my skin like art shining against the mould, if only my body were a canvas brave if only.

When will the leaves begin to change in this body of mine?

They called me a lost cause but I’m not the boy I once was I’ve paid full price for each mistake now I know, how much this body can take.

My pent-up passion seeped out like gas from a leaky stove, your touch was the spark I needed to set my body on fire.

I have emptied myself of a heavy burden today lifted it out of my body and placed it down its not the end but it’s a beginning.