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.

That subtle knot which makes us man So must pure lovers souls descend T affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great Prince in prison lies.

Yet nothing can to nothing fall, Nor any place be empty quite; Therefore I think my breast hath all Those pieces still, though they be not unite; And now, as broken glasses show A hundred lesser faces, so My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore, But after one such love, can love no more.

God affords no man the comfort, the false comfort of Atheism: He will not allow a pretending Atheist the power to flatter himself, so far, as to seriously think there is no God.

When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language.

The difference between the reason of man and the instinct of the beast is this, that the beast does but know, but the man knows that he knows.

I shall die reading; since my book and a grave are so near.