Heaven Finds An Ear When Sinners Find

O Lust, Thou Infernal Fire, Whose Fuel Is Gluttony; Whose Flame Is Pride, Whose Sparkles Are Wanton Words; Whose Smoke Is Infamy; Whose Ashes Are Uncleanness; Whose End Is Hell.

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.

Temper Your Enjoyments With Prudence, Lest There Be Written On Your Heart That Fearful Word 'satiety.'

There Be Three Sorts Of Government--monarchical, Aristocratical, Democratical; And They Are Apt To Fall Three Several Ways Into Ruin--the First, By Tyranny; The Second, By Ambition; The Last, By Tumults. A Commonwealth Grounded Upon Any One Of These Is Not Of Long Continuance; But, Wisely Mingled, Each Guards The Other And Makes That Government Exact.

Afflictions Clarify The Soul; And Like Hard Masters, Give More Hard Directions, Tutoring The Non-age Of Uncurbed Affections.