Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.

How great love is, presence best trial makes, But absence tries how long this love will be.

Our faults are not seen, But past us; neither felt, but only in The punishment.

Who ever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm; The mystery, the sign you must not touch, For 'tis my outward soul, Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone, Will leave this to control, And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

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

Contemplative and bookish men must of necessity be more quarrelsome than others, because they contend not about matter of fact, nor can determine their controversies by any certain witnesses, nor judges. But as long as they go towards peace, that is Truth, it is no matter which way.

Humiliation is the beginning of sanctification.