God Is Thy Law, Thou Mine.

Angels Contented With Their Face In Heaven, Seek Not The Praise Of Men.

But O Yet More Miserable! Myself My Sepulchre, A Moving Grave.

The Earth, Though In Comparison Of Heaven So Small, Nor Glistering, May Of Solid Good Contain More Plenty Than The Sun, That Barren Shines.

As In An Organ From One Blast Of Wind To Many A Row Of Pipes The Soundboard Breathes.

Fear Of Change Perplexes Monarchs.