God Employs Several Translators; Some

Doubt Wisely; In Strange Way To Stand Inquiring Right, Is Not To Stray; To Sleep, Or Run Wrong, Is.

Solitude Is A Torment Which Is Not Threatened In Hell Itself.

What Gnashing Is Not A Comfort, What Gnawing Of The Worm Is Not A Tickling, What Torment Is Not A Marriage Bed To This Damnation, To Be Secluded Eternally, Eternally, Eternally From The Sight Of God?

And When A Whirl-winde Hath Blowne The Dust Of The Churchyard Into The Church, And Man Sweeps Out The Dust Of The Church Into The Church-yard, Who Will Undertake To Sift Those Dusts Again, And To Pronounce, This Is The Patrician, This Is The Noble Flower, And This The Yeomanly, This The Plebian Bran.

That Thou Remember Them, Some Claim As Debt; I Think It Mercy, If Thou Wilt Forget.