The province of the soul is large enough to fill up every cranny of your time, and leave you much to answer for if one wretch be damned by your neglect.
Roused by the lash of his own stubborn tail our lion now will foreign foes assail.
To die is landing on some distant shore.
He wants worth who dares not praise a foe.
Uncertain whose the narrowest span,--the clown unread, or half-read gentleman.
Having mourned your sin, for outward Eden lost, find paradise within.