Solitude Sometimes Is Best Society.

There Is No Truth Sure Enough To Justify Persecution.

Till Old Experience Do Attain To Something Like Prophetic Strain.

The Stars, That Nature Hung In Heaven, And Filled Their Lamps With Everlasting Oil, Give Due Light To The Misled And Lonely Traveller.

Then Might Ye See Cowls, Hoods, And Habits With Their Wearers Tost And Flutter'd Into Rags; Then Reliques, Beads, Indulgences, Dispenses, Pardons, Bulls, The Sport Of Winds; All These Upwhirl'd Aloft Fly To The Rearward Of The World Far Off Into A Limbo Large And Broad, Since Called The Paradise Of Fools.

It Were A Journey Like The Path To Heaven, To Help You Find Them.