These Have Not The Hope To Die.

Lost Are We, And Are Only So Far Punished, That Without Hope We Live On In Desire.

Infinite Goodness Has Such Wide Arms.

No Sadness Is Greater Than In Misery To Rehearse Memories Of Joy.

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.

And As He, Who With Laboring Breath Has Escaped From The Deep To The Shore, Turns To The Perilous Waters And Gazes.