For She Belike Hath Drunken Deep Of

God! Sing, Ye Meadow-streams, With Gladsome Voice! Ye Pine-groves, With Your Soft And Soul-like Sounds! And They Too Have A Voice, You Piles Of Snow, And In Their Perilous Fall Shall Thunder, God!

In Koln, A Town Of Monks And Bones, And Pavement Fang'd With Murderous Stones, And Rags And Hags, And Hideous Wenches, I Counted Two-and-seventy Stenches, All Well Defined, And Several Stinks! Ye Nymphs That Reign O'er Sewers And Sinks, The River Rhine, It Is Well Known, Doth Wash Your City Of Cologne; But Tell Me, Nymphs! What Power Divine Shall Henceforth Whash The River Rhine.

No Man Does Anything From A Single Motive.

The Jews Would Not Willingly Tread Upon The Smallest Piece Of Paper In Their Way, But Took It Up; For Possibly, They Say, The Name Of God May Be On It. Though There Was A Little Superstition In This, Yet Truly There Is Nothing But Good Religion In It, If We Apply It To Men. Trample Not On Any; There May Be Some Work Of Grace There, That Thou Knowest Not Of. The Name Of God May Be Written Upon That Soul Thou Treadest On; It May Be A Soul That Christ Thought So Much Of, As To Give His Precious Blood For It; Therefore Despise It Not.

Novels Are To Love As Fairy Tales To Dreams.