Roses grow on thorns and honey wears a sting.

I have been there, and still would go; 'T is like a little heaven below.

There is a land of pure delight, Where saints immortal reign; Infinite day excludes the night, And pleasures banish pain.

Learn good-humor, never to oppose without just reason; abate some degree of pride and moroseness.

What bliss will fill the ransomed souls, when they in glory dwell, to see the sinner as he rolls, in quenchless flames of hell.

Academical disputation gives vigor and briskness to the mind thus exercised, and relieves the languor of private study and meditation.

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.