Now God comes to thee, not as in the dawning of the day, not as in the bud of the spring, but as the sun at noon to illustrate all shadows, as the sheaves in harvest, to fill all penuries, all occasions invite his mercies, and all times are his seasons.

Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.

Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were

He that desires to print a book, should much more desire, to be a book.

Pleasure is none, if not diversified.

What if this present were the world's last night?

Between these two, the denying of sins, which we have done, and the bragging of sins, which we have not done, what a space, what a compass is there, for millions of millions of sins!