It Is Rare To See A Rich

Of All Trees, I Observe God Hath Chosen The Vine, A Low Plant That Creeps Upon The Helpful Wall; Of All Beasts, The Soft And Patient Lamb; Of All Fowls, The Mild And Guileless Dove. Christ Is The Rose Of The Field, And The Lily Of The Valley. When God Appeared To Moses, It Was Not In The Lofty Cedar Nor The Sturdy Oak Nor The Spreading Palm; But In A Bush, A Humble, Slender, Abject Shrub; As If He Would, By These Elections, Check The Conceited Arrogance Of Man.

Virtue Is The Truest Liberty.

That Man Is But Of The Lower Part Of The World That Is Not Brought Up To Business And Affairs.

Shall I Speak Truly What I Now See Below? The World Is All A Carkass, Smoak And Vanity, The Shadow Of A Shadow, A Play And In One Word, Just Nothing.

Vice Is A Peripatetic, Always In Progression.