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The greatest burden in the world is superstition, not only of ceremonies in the church, but of imaginary and scarecrow sins at home.
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Knowledge cannot defile, nor consequently the books, if the will and conscience be not defiled.
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If the will, which in the law of our nature, were withdrawn from our memory, fancy, understanding, and reason, no other hell could equal, for a spiritual being, what we should then feel from the anarchy of our powers. It would be conscious madness,--a horrid thought!
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A grateful mind/ By owing owes not, but still pays, at once/ Indebted and discharg'd.
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Those whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme...
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Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world.
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Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
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We read not that Christ ever exercised force but once; and that was to drive profane ones out of his Temple, not to force them in.
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The brazen throat of war.
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Now conscience wakes despair That slumber'd,-wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse.
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All hell broke loose.
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While the cock with lively dinScatters the rear of darkness thin,And to the stack, or the barn door,Stoutly struts his dames before,Oft list'ning how the hounds and hornCheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn.
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At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:Tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
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Where eldest Night And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold Eternal anarchy amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand; For hot, cold, moist, and dry, four champions fierce, Strive here for mast'ry.
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And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.
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For the air of youth, Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood will reign A melancholy damp of cold and dry To weigh thy spirits down, and last consume The balm of life.
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And to thy husband's will Thine shall submit; he over thee shall rule.
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The teachers of our law, and to propose What might improve my knowledge or their own.
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A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.
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He that can apprehend and consider vice with all her baits and seeming pleasures, and yet abstain, and yet distinguish, and yet prefer that which is truly better, he is the true wayfaring Christian. 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. Assuredly we bring not innocence into the world, we bring impurity much rather: that which purifies us is trial, and trial is by what is contrary.
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So shall the world go on, To good malignant, to bad men benign, Under her own weight groaning.
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It was that fatal and perfidious bark,Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
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He that has light within his own clear breast May sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; Himself his own dungeon.
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Where glowing embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom,Far from all resort of mirth,Save the cricket on the hearth.