The Way To Bliss Lies Not On

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.

Luxury Is An Enticing Pleasure, A Bastard Mirth, Which Hath Honey In Her Mouth, Gall In Her Heart, And A Sting In Her Tail.

Sin, When It Is Finished, Bringeth Forth Death.

Though Virtue Give A Ragged Livery, She Gives A Golden Cognizance; If Her Service Make Thee Poor, Blush Not. Thy Poverty May Disadvantage Thee, But Not Dishonor Thee.

The Birds Of The Air Die To Sustain Thee; The Beasts Of The Field Die To Nourish Thee; The Fishes Of The Sea Die To Feed Thee. Our Stomachs Are Their Common Sepulchre. Good God! With How Many Deaths Are Our Poor Lives Patched Up! How Full Of Death Is The Life Of Momentary Man!