Enjoyment Always Has A Spoiling,

How Many Times Go We To Comedies, To Masques, To Places Of Great And Noble Resort, Nay Even To Church Only To See The Company.

In Heaven It Is Always Autumn.

For I Am Every Dead Thing In Whom Love Wrought New Alchemy For His Art Did Express A Quintessence Even From Nothingness, From Dull Privations, And Lean Emptiness He Ruined Me, And I Am Re-begot Of Absence, Darkness, Death; Things Which Are Not.

Sleep Is Pain's Easiest Salve, And Doth Fulfil All Offices Of Death, Except To Kill.

Who Are A Little Wise The Best Fools Be.