At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls **** All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.

That thou remember them, some claim as debt; I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.

All occasions invite His mercies, and all times are His seasons.

Reason is our soul's left hand, Faith her right, By these we reach divinity

Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.

There is no health; physicians say that we, at best, enjoy but neutrality.

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