Nature Is The Art Of God.

He Who Sees A Need And Waits To Be Asked For Help Is As Unkind As If He Had Refused It.

Ah! Justice Of Our God! Who Else Could Stow Such Travails New And Pains As Met My Glance!

In That Part Of The Book Of My Memory Before The Which Is Little That Can Be Read, There Is A Rubric, Saying, Incipit Vita Nova. Under Such Rubric I Find Written Many Things; And Among Them The Words Which I Purpose To Copy Into This Little Book; If Not All Of Them, At The Least Their Substance.

O You Proud Christians, Wretched Souls And Small,/ Who By The Dim Lights Of Your Twisted Minds/ Believe You Prosper Even As You Fall,/ Can You Not See That We Are Worms, Each One/ Born To Become The Angelic Butterfly/ That Flies Defenseless To The Judgement Throne?

It May Be That A More Subtle Person Would Find For This Thing A Reason Of Greater Subtlety: But Such Is The Reason That I Find, And That Liketh Me Best.