Man Hath Weaved Out A Net, And

Affliction Is A Treasure, And Scarce Any Man Hath Enough Of It.

Men Perish With Whispering Sins-nay, With Silent Sins, Sins That Never Tell The Conscience That They Are Sins, As Often With Crying Sins; And In Hell There Shall Meet As Many Men That Never Thought What Was Sin, As That Spent All Their Thoughts In The Compassing Of Sin.

I Am A Little World Made Cunningly.

Solitude Is A Torment Which Is Not Threatened In Hell Itself.

And New Philosophy Calls All In Doubt, The Element Of Fire Is Quite Put Out; The Sun Is Lost, And The Earth, And No Man's Wit Can Well Direct Him Where To Look For It. And Freely Men Confess That This World's Spent, When In The Planets, And The Firmament They Seek So Many New; Then See That This Is Crumbled Out Again To His Atomies. 'tis All In Pieces, All Coherence Gone; All Just Supply, And All Relation: Prince, Subject, Father, Son, Are Things Forgot.