I was all ear, And took in strains that might create a soul Under the ribs of death.

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

Heav'nly love shall outdoo Hellish hate

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.

What better can we do than prostrate fall before Him reverent, and there confess humbly our faults, and pardon beg with tears watering the ground?

The end of all learning is to know God, and out of that knowledge to love and imitate Him.

Virtue that wavers is not virtue, but vice revolted from itself, and after a while returning. The actions of just and pious men do not darken in their middle course.