Light That Makes Things Seen, Makes Some

As For Those Wingy Mysteries In Divinity, And Airy Subtleties In Religion, Which Have Unhinged The Brains Of Better Heads, They Never Stretched The Pia Mater Of Mine; Methinks There Be Not Impossibilities Enough In Religion For An Active Faith.

There Is Surely A Piece Of Divinity In Us, Something Was Before The Elements, And Owes No Homage Unto The Sun.

Nor Do They Speak Properly Who Say That Time Consumeth All Things; For Time Is Not Effective, Nor Are Bodies Destroyed By It.

Though It Be In The Power Of The Weakest Arm To Take Away Life, It Is Not In The Strongest To Deprive Us Of Death.

To Call Ourselves A Microcosme, Or Little World, I Thought It Onely A Pleasant Trope Of Rhetorick, Till My Neare Judgement And Second Thoughts Told Me There Was A Reall Truth Therein: For First Wee Are A Rude Masse, And In The Ranke Of Creatures, Which Only Are, And Have A Dull Kinde Of Being Not Yet Priviledged With Life, Or Preferred To Sense Or Reason; Next We Live The Life Of Plants, The Life Of Animals, The Life Of Men, And At Last The Life Of Spirits, Running On In One Mysterious Nature Those Five Kinds Of Existence, Which Comprehend The Creatures Not Onely Of World, But Of The Universe.