"Yet nothing can to nothing fall,Nor any place be empty quite;Therefore I think my breast hath allThose pieces still, though they be not unite;And now, as broken glasses showA hundred lesser faces, soMy rags of heart can like, wish, and adore,But after one such love, can love no more."

“   Her pure and eloquent bloodSpoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought,That one might almost say, her body thought.”

“Think then, my soul, that death is but a groom,Which brings a taper to the outward room.”

“For good or evil must in our actions meet;Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.”

“There is no health; physicians say, that weAt best enjoy but a neutrality.”

“She, she is dead; she’s dead; when thou know’st this,Thou know’st how dry a cinder this world is.”

“And new philosophy calls all in doubt, The element of fire is quite put out; The sun is lost, and the earth, and no man's wit, Can well direct him where to look for it. And freely men confess that this world's spent, When in the planets, and the firmament They seek so many new; then see that this Is crumbled out again to his atomies. 'Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone; All just supply, and all relation: Prince, subject, Father, Son, are things forgot.”