No Man Is An Island Unto Himself.

Good Is Not Good, Unless A Thousand It Possess, But Doth Waste With Greediness.

Be Thine Own Palace, Or The World's Thy Jail.

Other Men's Crosses Are Not My Crosses.

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.

Now God Comes To Thee, Not As In The Dawning Of The Day, Not As In The Bud Of The Spring, But As The Sun At Noon To Illustrate All Shadows, As The Sheaves In Harvest, To Fill All Penuries, All Occasions Invite His Mercies, And All Times Are His Seasons.