John donne

Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.

Pleasure is none, if not diversified.

When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language.

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.

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

Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

I am two fools, I know, for loving, and for saying so in whining poetry.