Ill News Are Swallow-winged, But What Is

You May Boldly Say, You Did Not Plough Or Trust The Barren And Ungrateful Sands With The Fruitful Grain Of Your Religious Counsels.

Before We End Our Pilgrimage, 'tis Fit That We Should Leave Corruption, And Foul Sin, Behind Us, But With Wash'd Feet And Hands, The Heathens Dar' Not Enter Their Profane Temples; And For Me To Hope My Passage To Eternity Can Be Made Easy, Till I Have Shook Off The Burthen Of My Sins In Free Confession, Aided With Sorrow, And Repentance For Them, Is Against Reason.

We Have Not An Hour Of Life In Which Our Pleasures Relish Not Some Pain, Our Sours, Some Sweetness.

Be Wise; Soar Not Too High To Fall; But Stoop To Rise.

Death Hath A Thousand Doors To Let Out Life.