A politician is the devil's quilted anvil; He fashions all sins on him, and the blows are never heard.
Sorrow is held the eldest child of sin.
Are you grown an atheist? Will you turn your body, Which is the goodly palace of the soul, To the soul's slaughter-house? Oh, the curse' d devil, Which doth present us with all other sins Thrice-candied o'er.
Oh, yes, thy sins Do run before thee to fetch fire from hell, To light thee thither.
Do you not weep? Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out. The element of water moistens the earth, But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens.
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