But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.

We are all conceived in close prison; in our mothers wombs, we are close prisoners all; when we are born, we are born but to the liberty of the house; prisoners still, though within larger walls; and then all our life is but a going out to the place of execution, to death.

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

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!

I observe the physician with the same diligence as the disease.

Doubt wisely; in strange way To stand inquiring right, is not to stray; To sleep, or run wrong, is.

In heaven it is always autumn.