There Is Not So Variable A Thing

The Soul, Considered With Its Creator, Is Like One Of Those Mathematical Lines That May Draw Nearer To Another For All Eternity Without A Possibility Of Touching It; And Can There Be A Thought So Transporting As To Consider Ourselves In These Perpetual Approaches To Him, Who Is Not Only The Standard Of Perfection, But Of Happiness?

Great Pompey's Shade Complains That We Are Slow, And Scipio's Ghost Walks Unavenged Amongst Us!

Music, The Greatest Good That Mortals Know And All Of Heaven We Have Hear Below.

Should A Writer Single Out And Point His Raillery At Particular Persons, Or Satirize The Miserable, He Might Be Sure Of Pleasing A Great Part Of His Readers, But Must Be A Very Ill Man If He Could Please Himself.

That Fine Part Of Our Construction, The Eye, Seems As Much The Receptacle And Seat Of Our Passions As The Mind Itself; And At Least It Is The Outward Portal To Introduce Them To The House Within, Or Rather The Common Thoroughfare To Let Our Affections Pass In And Out.