As like a church and an ale-house, God and the devell, they manie times dwell neere to ether.

Beauty is but a flower which wrinkles will devour; Brightness falls from the air

Blest is that government where no art thrives.

Beauty is but a flower, which wrinkles will devour.

A beggarly people, A church and no steeple.

In that temple of silence and reconciliation where the enmities of twenty generations lie buried, in the Great Abbey, which has during many ages afforded a quiet resting-place to those whose minds and bodies have been shattered by the contentions of the Great Hall.