Our Delight In Any Particular Study, Art,

There Is Nothing That Makes Its Way More Directly Into The Soul Than Beauty.

Yet Then From All My Grief, O Lord, Thy Mercy Set Me Free, Whilst In The Confidence Of Pray'r My Soul Took Hold On Thee.

Simonides, A Poet Famous In His Generation, Is, I Think, Author Of The Oldest Satire That Is Now Extant, And, As Some Say, Of The First That Was Ever Written.

The Soul, Considered With Its Creator, Is Like One Of Those Mathematical Lines That May Draw Nearer To Another For All Eternity Without A Possibility Of Touching It; And Can There Be A Thought So Transporting As To Consider Ourselves In These Perpetual Approaches To Him, Who Is Not Only The Standard Of Perfection, But Of Happiness?

In That Disputable Point Of Persecuting Men For Conscience Sake, I See Such Dreadful Consequences Rising, I Would Be As Fully Convinced Of The Truth Of It, As A Mathematical Demonstration, Before I Would Venture To Act Upon It Or Make It A Part Of My Religion.