And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory… - Henry Vaughan

Holy writing must strive (by all means) for perfection and true holiness, that a door may be opened to him in heaven.

Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span Where weeping Virtue parts with man; Where love without lust dwells, and bends What way we please without self-ends. <p> An age of mysteries! which he Must live that would God's face see Which angels guard, and with it play, Angels! which foul men drive away.

Why should I not love childhood still? Why, if I see a rock or shelf, Shall I from thence cast down myself? Or by complying with the world, From the same precipice be hurled? Those observations are but foul, Which make me wise to lose my soul. <p> And yet the practice worldlings call Business, and weighty action all, Checking the poor child for his play, But gravely cast themselves away.