And, If I Were So Low That

As You See In A Pair Of Bellows, There Is A Forced Breath Without Life, So In Those That Are Puffed Up With The Wind Of Ostentation, There May Be Charitable Words Without Works.

Virtues Go Ever In Troops; They Go So Thick, That Sometimes Some Are Hid In The Crowd; Which Yet Are, But Appear Not.

It Is Not Sin That Kills The Soul, But Impenitence.

The Idle Man Is The Devil's Cushion, On Which He Taketh His Free Ease: Who, As He Is Uncapable Of Any Good, So He Is Fitly Disposed For All Evil Motions.

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