He that can apprehend and consider vice with all her baits and seeming pleasures, and yet abstain, and yet distinguish, and yet prefer that which is truly better, he is the true wayfaring Christian. I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race, where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat. Assuredly we bring not innocence into the world, we bring impurity much rather: that which purifies us is trial, and trial is by what is contrary.

Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.

All hope is lost of my reception into grace; what worse? For where no hope is left, is left no fear.

The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day.

Hard are the ways of truth, and rough to walk.

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

Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.