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.

O conscience, upright and stainless, how bitter a sting to thee is a little fault!

Heaven wheels above you, displaying to you her eternal glories, and still your eyes are on the ground.

Midway along the journey of our life I woke to find myself in a dark wood, for I had wandered off from the straight path. How hard it is to tell what it was like, this wood of wilderness, savage and stubborn (the thought of it brings back all my old fears), a bitter place! Death could scarce be bitterer. But if I would show the good that came of it I must talk about things other than the good.

There sighs, lamentations and loud wailings resounded through the starless air, so that at first it made me weep; strange tongues, horrible language, words of pain, tones of anger, voices loud and hoarse, and with these the sound of hands, made a tumult which is whirling through that air forever dark, and sand eddies in a whirlwind.

From there we came outside and saw the stars

Seldom indeed does human virtue rise From trunk to branch.