Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.

There is no Christian duty that is not to be seasoned and set off with cheerishness, which in a thousand outward and intermitting crosses may yet be done well, as in this vale of tears.

how wearisom Eternity so spent in worship paid To whom we hate. Let us not then pursue By force impossible, by leave obtain'd Unacceptable, though in Heav'n, our state Of splendid vassalage, but rather seek Our own good from our selves, and from our own Live to our selves, though in this vast recess, Free, and to none accountable, preferring Hard liberty before the easie yoke Of servile Pomp

Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss

Be strong, live happy and love, but first of all Him whom to love is to obey, and keep His great command!

Loneliness is the first thing which God's eye named not good.

Yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible.