Death is an ascension to a better library.
If every gnat that flies were an archangel, all that could but tell me that there is a God; and the poorest worm that creeps tells me that.
But he who loveliness within Hath found, all outward loathes, For he who color loves, and skin, Loves but their oldest clothes.
That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.
I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call and invite God and his angels thither.
In the first minute that my soul is infused, the Image of God is imprinted in my soul; so forward is God in my behalf, and so early does he visit me.