Enflamed with the study of learning and the admiration of virtue; stirred up with high hopes of living to be brave men and worthy patriots, dear to God, and famous to all ages.

Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell.

Mammon, the least erected spirit that fell >From heaven; for ev'n in heaven his looks and thoughts Were always downward bent, admiring more The riches of heaven's pavement, trodden gold, Than aught divine or holy else enjoy'd In vision beatific.

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.

Farewell happy fields, Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.

Let her (Truth) and Falsehood grapple; who ever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter?

He 's gone, and who knows how he may report Thy words by adding fuel to the flame?