For God's Sake Hold Your Tongue, And

If Every Gnat That Flies Were An Archangel, All That Could But Tell Me That There Is A God; And The Poorest Worm That Creeps Tells Me That.

Sweetest Love, I Do Not Go, For Weariness Of Thee, Nor In Hope The World Can Show A Fitter Love For Me; But Since That I Must Die At Last, 'tis Best, To Use My Self In Jest Thus By Feign'd Deaths To Die.

No Man Is An Island, Entire Of Itself; Every Man Is A Piece Of The Continent.

Love Was As Subtly Caught, As A Disease; But Being Got It Is A Treasure Sweet, Which To Defend Is Harder Than To Get: And Ought Not Be Profaned On Either Part, For Though 'tis Got By Chance, 'tis Kept By Art.

Can There Be Worse Sickness, Than To Know That We Are Never Well, Nor Can Be So?