We have a mistaken notion of antiquity, calling that so which in truth is the world's nonage.

Some pretences daunt and discourage us, while others raise us to a brisk assurance.

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

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.

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

And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness, Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.

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