My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
My thoughts are whirled like a potter’s wheel.
My soul is in the sky.
My salad days, when I was green in judgment.
My pride fell with my fortunes.
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
My crown is in my heart, not on my head; not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, nor to be seen: my crown is called content, a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.
Murder’s out of tune, and sweet revenge grows harsh.
Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue.
Misery makes sport to mock itself.
Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.
