Where More Is Meant Than Meets The

For Neither Man Nor Angel Can Discern Hypocrisy, The Only Evil That Walks Invisible, Except To God Alone.

My Heart Contains Of Good, Wise, Just, The Perfect Shape.

I Cannot Praise A Fugitive And Cloistered Virtue, Unexercised And Unbreathed, That Never Sallies Out And Sees Her Adversary, But Slinks Out Of The Race Where That Immortal Garland Is To Be Run For, Not Without Dust And Heat.

Sweet Is The Breath Of Morn, Her Rising Sweet, With Charm Of Earliest Birds.

The Martyrs Shook The Powers Of Darkness With The Irresistible Power Of Weakness.