So, when a raging fever burns, We shift from side to side by turns; And 't is a poor relief we gain To change the place, but keep the pain.

Were the whole realm of nature mine, That were a present far too small: Love so amazing, so divine Demands my soul, my life, my all.

Tis the voice of the sluggard I heard him complain,You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber again.

A dogmatical spirit inclines a man to be censorious of his neighbors. Every one of his opinions appears to him written, as it were, with sunbeams, and he grows angry that his neighbors do not see it in the same light. He is tempted to disdain his correspondents as men of low and dark understandings because they do not believe what he does.

Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heart-strings

Abandon the secret chamber and the spiritual life will decay.

There's no repentance in the grave.