Into this wild abyss, The womb of Nature and perhaps her grave.

Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.

So dear to heav'n is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.

The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven.

Or if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

Contemplation is wisdom's best nurse.

It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.