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