Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me; But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best, To use my self in jest Thus by feign'd deaths to die.

Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.

Thy face is mine eye, and mine is thine.

Other men's crosses are not my crosses.

Eternity is not an everlasting flux of time, but time is as a short parenthesis in a long period.

we give each other a smile with a future in it

Commemoration of Richard Meux Benson, Founder of the Society of St John the Evangelist, 1915 Our critical day is not the very day of our death, but the whole course of our life; I thank him, that prays for me when my bell tolls; but I thank him much more, that catechizes me, or preaches to me, or instructs me how to live.