And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?

God affords no man the comfort, the false comfort of Atheism: He will not allow a pretending Atheist the power to flatter himself, so far, as to seriously think there is no God.

Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.

For I am every dead thing In whom love wrought new alchemy For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness He ruined me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.

But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.

Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.

Christ beats his drum, but he does not press men; Christ is served with voluntaries.