I wasted time, and now doth Time waste me: For now hath Time made me his numb'ring clock; My thoughts are minutes
O father Abram! what these Christians are,Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspectThe thoughts of others!
Our wills and fates do so contrary runThat our devices still are overthrown;Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried.
So are you to my thoughts as food to life, or as sweet seasoned showers are to the ground.
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own
My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am nor what I do.
Once more the engine of her thoughts began. . . .