Humiliation Is The Beginning Of Sanctification.

Love, All Alike, No Season Knows, Nor Clime, Nor Hours, Days, Months, Which Are The Rags Of Time.

Man Hath Weaved Out A Net, And This Net Throwne Upon The Heavens, And Now They Are His Own.

O Lord, Never Suffer Us To Think That We Can Stand By Ourselves, And Not Need Thee.

I Wonder By My Troth, What Thou, And I Did, Till We Loved? Were We Not Weaned Till Then? But Sucked On Country Pleasures, Childishly? Or Snorted We In The Seven Sleepers' Den?

Our Faults Are Not Seen, But Past Us; Neither Felt, But Only In The Punishment.