The appellation, melancholia, / Rings grimsome cannotations [sic] to the mind / Of fearful lapses caused by constant thought / Of hardships, accusations and forebodings, / Preying to disorient in space / The will to reason and for what one wrought.

These roads, branchlike, divide and subdivide until they end in trails which finally tap a great hinterland inhabited by a scattered population.

Ichabod; is the glory departing from us? Under the sun is nothing baser, by all accounts and evidences, than the system of repression and corruption, of shameless dishonesty and unbelief in anything but human baseness, that we now live under.

my proneſſe to ſinne, and naughty appetites and desires, woulde drawe me headlong to the pitte of hell