Good God, The Souls Of All My

Press Not A Falling Man Too Far; 'tis Virtue: His Faults Lie Open To The Laws; Let Them, Not You, Correct Him.

There Is Some Soul Of Goodness In Things Evil, Would Men Observingly Distill It Out.

Love, Which Teacheth Me That Thou And I Am One

Tis A Cruelty To Load A Fallen Man.

A Book? O, Rare One, Be Not, As Is Our Fangled World, A Garment Nobler Than That It Covers.