Kill not the moth nor butterfly, / For the last judgement draweth nigh.

The black-bird and the speckled thrush / Good-morrow gave from brake and brush; / In answer cooed the cushat dove, / Her notes of peace, and rest, and love.

Holiness maketh men meek and patient, and teacheth subjects not to make too great a matter of any injury that is done them; nor to censure unwarrantably the actions of their superiours […]

If you ask how religion thus falls on the thorns and faces death, and in the very act annuls annihilation, I cannot explain the matter, for it is religion's secret, and to understand it you must yourself have been a religious man of the extremer type.