Doubt Wisely; In Strange Way To Stand

This Extasie Doth Unperplex (we Said) And Tell Us What We Love, Wee See By This, It Was Not Sexe, Wee See, We Saw Not What Did Move: But As All Severall Soules Contain Mixture Of Things, They Know Not What, Love, These Mixt Souls, Doth Mixe Againe. Loves Mysteries In Soules Doe Grow, But Yet The Body Is His Booke.

Nothing But Man Of All Envenomed Things, Doth Work Upon Itself, With Inborn Stings.

Keep Us, Lord, So Awake In The Duties Of Our Calling That We May Sleep In Thy Peace And Wake In Thy Glory.

To An Incompetent Judge I Must Not Lie, But I May Be Silent; To A Competent I Must Answer.

Love, All Alike, No Season Knows, Nor Clime, Nor Hours, Days, Months, Which Are The Rags Of Time.