The woman in us still prosecutes a deceit like that begun in the garden.

How the purer spirit is united to his clod, is a knot too hard for fallen humanity to untie.

The woman in us still prosecutes a deceit like that begun in the garden.

To converse at the distance of the Indes by means of sympathetic contrivances may be as natural to future times as to us is a literary correspondence.

Justice is but the distributing to everything according to the requirements of its nature.

Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.

Time, as a river, hath brought down to us what is more light and superficial, while things more solid and substantial have been immersed.