[w]e All Lie Down In Our Bed

How Endless Is That Volume Which God Hath Written Of The World! Every Creature Is A Letter, Every Day A New Page.

Surely The Mischief Of Hypocrisy Can Never Be Enough Inveighed Against. When Religion Is In Request, It Is The Chief Malady Of The Church, And Numbers Die Of It; Though Because It Is A Subtle And Inward Evil, It Be Little Perceived. It Is To Be Feared There Are Many Sick Of It, That Look Well And Comely In God's Outward Worship, And They May Pass Well In Good Weather, In Times Of Peace; But Days Of Adversity Are Days Of Trial.

The Malcontent Is Neither Well, Full Nor Fasting; And Though He Abounds With Complaints, Yet Nothing Dislikes Him But The Present; For What He Condemns While It Was, Once Passed, He Magnifies And Strives To Recall It Out Of The Jaw Of Time. What He Hath He Seeth Not, His Eyes Are So Taken Up With What He Wants; And What He Sees He Careth Not For, Because Be Cares So Much For That Which Is Not.

No Marvel If The Worldling Escape Earthly Afflictions. God Corrects Him Not. He Is Base Born And Begot. God Will Not Do Him The Favour To Whip Him. The World Afflicts Him Not, Because It Loves Him: For Each Man Is Indulgent To His Own. God Uses Not The Rod Where He Means To Use The Word. The Pillory Or Scourge Is For Those Malefactors That Shall Escape Execution.

Even The Best Things Ill Used Become Evils; And, Contrarily, The Worst Things Used Well Prove Good.