Like the lark that soars in the air, first singing, then silent, content with the last sweetness that satiates it, such seemed to me that image, the imprint of the Eternal Pleasure.

O human race, born to fly upward, wherefore at a little wind dost thou so fall?

O foolish anxiety of wretched man, how inconclusive are the arguments which make thee beat thy wings below!

As phantoms frighten beasts when shadows fall.

Perceive ye not that we are worms, designed To form the angelic butterfly, that goes To judgment, leaving all defence behind? Why doth your mind take such exalted pose, Since ye, disabled, are as insects, mean As worm which never transformation knows?

In judgement be ye not too confident, Even as a man who will appraise his corn When standing in a field, ere it is ripe.

If your world isn't right, the cause is in you.