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.
Send not to know For whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.
I am two fools, I know, for loving, and for saying so in whining poetry.
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.
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
He must pull out his own eyes, and see no creature, before he can say, he sees no God; He must be no man, and quench his reasonable soul, before he can say to himself, there is no God.
