In Heaven It Is Always Autumn.

There Is Nothing That God Hath Established In A Constant Course Of Nature, And Which Therefore Is Done Every Day, But Would Seem A Miracle, And Exercise Our Admiration, If It Were Done But Once.

Yet Nothing Can To Nothing Fall, Nor Any Place Be Empty Quite; Therefore I Think My Breast Hath All Those Pieces Still, Though They Be Not Unite; And Now, As Broken Glasses Show A Hundred Lesser Faces, So My Rags Of Heart Can Like, Wish, And Adore, But After One Such Love, Can Love No More.

The Psalms Foretell What I, What Any Shall Do And Suffer And Say.

I Did Best When I Had Least Truth For My Subjects.

Reason Is Our Soul's Left Hand, Faith Her Right, By These We Reach Divinity