Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple; who ever knew Truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter.

The work under our labour grows, Luxurious by restraint.

Spirits that live throughout, Vital in every part, not as frail man, In entrails, heart or head, liver or reins, Cannot but by annihilating die.

The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.

For books are as meats and viands are; some of good, some of evil sub-stance.

Luck is the residue of design.

Must I thus leave thee, Paradise?-thus leave Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades?