He That Begins To Live, Begins To

My Mind's My Kingdom.

The Birds Of The Air Die To Sustain Thee; The Beasts Of The Field Die To Nourish Thee; The Fishes Of The Sea Die To Feed Thee. Our Stomachs Are Their Common Sepulchre. Good God! With How Many Deaths Are Our Poor Lives Patched Up! How Full Of Death Is The Life Of Momentary Man!

Heav'n Is Not Always Got By Running.

The World's A Printing-house, Our Words, Our Thoughts, Our Deeds, Are Characters Of Several Sizes. Each Soul Is A Compos'tor, Of Whose Faults The Levites Are Correctors; Heaven Revises. Death Is The Common Press, From Whence Being Driven, We're Gather'd, Sheet By Sheet, And Bound For Heaven.

The Next Way Home's The Farthest Way About.