And to 'scape stormy days, I choose an everlasting night.

Yet nothing can to nothing fall, Nor any place be empty quite; Therefore I think my breast hath all Those pieces still, though they be not unite; And now, as broken glasses show A hundred lesser faces, so My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore, But after one such love, can love no more.

And to 'scape stormy days, I choose an everlasting night.

Art is the most passionate orgy within man's grasp.

Keep us, Lord, so awake in the duties of our calling that we may sleep in thy peace and wake in thy glory.

God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice.

O how feeble is man's power, that if good fortune fall, cannot add another hour, nor a lost hour recall!