The Wretch Who Digs The Mine For

My Retirement Was Now Become Solitude; The Former Is, I Believe, The Best State For The Mind Of Man, The Latter Almost The Worst. In Complete Solitude, The Eye Wants Objects, The Heart Wants Attachments, The Understanding Wants Reciprocation. The Character Loses Its Tenderness When It Has Nothing To Strengthen It, Its Sweetness When It Has Nothing To Soothe It.

Temptation Does Not Make The Sin, It Lies Ready In The Heart.

Sensibility Appears To Me To Be Neither Good Nor Evil In Itself, But In Its Application. Under The Influence Of Christian Principle, It Makes Saints And Martyrs; Ill-directed, Or Uncontrolled, It Is A Snare, And The Source Of Every Temptation; Besides, As People Cannot Get It If It Is Not Given Them, To Descant On It Seems To Me As Idle As To Recommend People To Have Black Eyes Or Fair Complexions.

Did Not God Sometimes Withhold In Mercy What We Ask, We Should Be Ruined At Our Own Request.

What Ascends Up In Prayer Descends To Us Again In Blessings. It Is Like The Rain Which Just Now Fell, And Which Had Been Drawn Up From The Ground In Vapors To The Clouds Before It Descended From Them To The Earth In That Refreshing Shower.