That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.

Doth not a man die even in his birth? The breaking of prison is death, and what is our birth, but a breaking of prison?

In heaven it is always autumn.

Between cowardice and despair, valour is gendred.

All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.

The whole life of Christ was a continual Passion; others die martyrs but Christ was born a martyr. He found a Golgotha even in Bethlehem, where he was born; for to his tenderness then the straws were almost as sharp as the thorns after, and the manger as uneasy at first as his cross at last. His birth and his death were but one continual act, and his Christmas day and his Good Friday are but the evening and morning of one and the same day. And as even his birth is his death, so every action and passage that manifests Christ to us is his birth, for Epiphany is manifestation.

And dare love that, and say so too, And forget the He and She.