I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

Drink! for you know not whence you came nor why: drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

There was a door to which I found no key: There was the veil through which I might not see.

The thoughtful soul to solitude retires.

Myself when young did eagerly frequent doctor and saint, and heard great argument about it and about: but evermore came out by the same door as in I went.