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.

For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love.

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent.

...but come bad chance
And wee joyne to it our strength
And wee teach it art and length
It selfe o'er us to advance.

Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven

No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a part of a continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were . . .