Soon As The Evening Shades

With What Astonishment And Veneration May We Look Into Our Own Souls, Where There Are Such Hidden Stores Of Virtue And Knowledge, Such Inexhaustible Sources Of Perfection. We Know Not Yet What We Shall Be, Nor Will It Ever Enter Into The Heart To Conceive The Glory That Will Be Always In Reserve For It.

How Can It Enter Into The Thoughts Of Man, That The Soul, Which Is Capable Of Such Immense Perfections, And Of Receiving New Improvements To All Eternity, Shall Fall Away Into Nothing Almost As Soon As It Is Created?

The Jealous Man's Disease Is Of So Malignant A Nature, That It Converts All It Takes Into Its Own Nourishment.

When Love's Well-timed 'tis Not A Fault To Love; The Strong, The Brave, The Virtuous, And The Wise, Sink In The Soft Captivity Together.

If Our Zeal Were True And Genuine We Should Be Much More Angry With A Sinner Than A Heretic.