Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.
For what can war, but endless war, still breed?
That virtue therefore which is but a youngling in the contemplation of evil, and knows not the utmost that vice promises to her followers, and rejects it, is but a blank virtue, not a pure; her whiteness is but an excremental whiteness.
Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy.
But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
God is thy law, thou mine: to know no more Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. With thee conversing I forget all time.