Be Thine Own Palace, Or The World's

I Am A Little World Made Cunningly.

Whoever Loves, If He Do Not Propose The Right True End Of Love, He's One That Goes To Sea For Nothing But To Make Him Sick.

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.

Lust-bred Diseases Rot Thee.

In Heaven It Is Always Autumn.