More than kisses, letters mingle souls.

There is in every miracle a silent chiding of the world, and a tacit reprehension of them who require, or who need miracles.

Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.

Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two; Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show To move, but doth if th' other do. And though it in the center sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. Suth wilt thou be to me, who must Like th' other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I began.

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!

God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.

The distance from nothing to a little, is ten thousand times more, than from it to the highest degree in this life.