The Fountain Of Beauty Is The Heart

Physicians, Of All Men, Are Most Happy; Whatever Good Success Soever They Have, The World Proclaimeth; And What Faults They Commit, The Earth Covereth.

The World's A Printing-house, Our Words, Our Thoughts, Our Deeds, Are Characters Of Several Sizes. Each Soul Is A Compos'tor, Of Whose Faults The Levites Are Correctors; Heaven Revises. Death Is The Common Press, From Whence Being Driven, We're Gather'd, Sheet By Sheet, And Bound For Heaven.

Sin, When It Is Finished, Bringeth Forth Death.

As There Is No Worldly Gain Without Some Loss, So There Is No Worldly Loss Without Some Gain; If Thou Hast Lost Thy Wealth, Thou Hast Lost Some Trouble With It; If Thou Art Degraded From Thy Honor, Thou Art Likewise Freed From The Stroke Of Envy; If Sickness Hath Blurred Thy Beauty, It Hath Delivered Thee From Pride. Set The Allowance Against The Loss, And Thou Shalt Find No Loss Great; He Loses Little Or Nothing, That Reserves Himself.

Even As The Needle That Directs The Hour, (touched With The Loadstone) By The Secret Power Of Hidden Nature, Points Upon The Pole; Even So The Wavering Powers Of My Soul, Touch'd By The Virtue Of Thy Spirit, Flee From What Is Earth, And Point Alone To Thee.