“Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.”

Poets by Death are conquer’d but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.

Ah, yet, e’er I descend to th’ grave, May I a small House and a large Garden have. And a few Friends, and many Books both true

Books should, not Business, entertain the Light; And Sleep, as undisturb’d as Death, the Night.

It is a hard and nice subject for a man to speak of himself: it grates his own heart to say anything of disparagement, and the reader’s ear to hear anything of praise from him.

Till the whole stream, which stopped him, should be gone, That runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on.

Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.

Nay, in death’s hand, the grape-stone proves As strong as thunder is in Jove’s.

May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, And many books, both true.

His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong; his life, I’m sure, was in the right.

Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?

In fields d’or or d’argent; but, if heraldry were guided by reason, a plough in a field arable would be the most noble and ancient arms.”

What a brave privilege is it to be free from all contentions, from all envying or being envied, from receiving or paying all kinds of ceremonies!

Water and air He for the Tenor chose, Earth made the Base, the Treble Fame arose,

Coy Nature, (which remain’d, though aged grown, A beauteous virgin still, enjoy’d by none, Nor seen unveil’d by anyone),

There is some help for all the defects of fortune; for, if a man cannot attain to the length of his wishes, he may have his remedy by cutting of them shorter.

What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?

Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid, In every bosom where her nest is made, Hatched by the beams of truth, denies him rest, And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.

I’m just a man, no more or no less. Bad as the worst, good as the best.

My goal was just to try and be the best player on my high school team, and look where I am now. And that was still my goal as a young kid, just to try and be a little better than my brother was.

To be thrilled by the stars at night; to be elated over a bird’s nest or a wildflower in spring – these are some of the rewards of the simple life.

Because we believe that somewhere in the nest of paradigms contained in the phrase “missional church” lies nothing less that the future viability of Western Christianity.

In missional churches, the baby birds have been pushed out of the nest and are learning to fly for themselves.

I think we need to have a nest of something which is family.