These are thy glorious works, Parent of good!
The earth, though in comparison of heaven so small, nor glistering, may of solid good contain more plenty than the sun, that barren shines.
For what is glory but the blaze of fame?
Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.
To be blind is not miserable; not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.
And, when night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.