Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.

Who knows his virtues name or place, hath none.

So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.

Men perish with whispering sins-nay, with silent sins, sins that never tell the conscience that they are sins, as often with crying sins; and in hell there shall meet as many men that never thought what was sin, as that spent all their thoughts in the compassing of sin.

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!

What if this present were the world's last night?

There is nothing that God hath established in a constant course of nature, and which therefore is done every day, but would seem a Miracle, and exercise our admiration, if it were done but once.