As virtuous men pass mildly away, and whisper to their souls to go, whilst some of their sad friends do say, the breath goes now, and some say no. |
At the round earth's imagined corners, blow / Your trumpets, Angels, and arise, arise / From death, you numberless infinities / Of souls. |
Batter my heart, three personed God; for you / As yet but knock, breathe, shine and seek to mend. |
Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail |
Be your own palace, or the world is your jail. |
Busy old fool, unruly Sun, / Why dost thou thus, / Through windows, and through curtains call on us? / Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? |
But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am mine own Executioner. |
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space. |
But O alas, so long, so far / Our bodies why do we forbear? / They're ours, though they're not we, we are / The intelligences, they the sphere. |
By our first strange and fatal interview. |
Come live with me, and be my love, and we will some new pleasures prove, Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines and silver hooks |
Contemplative and bookish men must of necessity be more quarrelsome than others, because they contend not about matter of fact, nor can determine their controversies by any certain witnesses, nor judges. But as long as they go towards peace, that is Truth, it is no matter which way. |
Dear love, for nothing less than thee / Would I have broke this happy dream, / It was a theme / For reason, much too strong for fantasy, / Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet / My dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it. |
Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so, For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me |
Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes |