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Some laborers have hard hands, and old sinners have brawny consciences.

Anne Bradstreet

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Anne Bradstreet
Age: 60 †
Born: 1612
Born: March 20
Died: 1672
Died: September 16
Poet
Writer
Ann Dudley
Ann Dudley Bradstreet
Anne Dudley Bradstreet
Anne Dudley
Sinner
Conscience
Hands
Hard
Brawny
Consciences
Laborers
Sinners

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A prosperous state makes a secure Christian, but adversity makes him Consider.
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Fire hath its force abated by water, not by wind and anger must be allayed by cold words, and not by blustering threats.
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Iron till it be thoroughly heated is incapable to be wrought so God sees good to cast some men into the furnace of affliction, and then beats them on His anvil into what frame He desires.
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There is no object that we see no action that we do no good that we enjoy no evil that we feel, or fear, but we may make some spiritual advantage of all: and he that makes such improvement is wise, as well as pious.
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If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant.
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To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings/Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun/For my mean Pen are too superior things.
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I wish my Sun may never set, but burn.
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Sin and shame ever go together he that would be freed from the last must be sure to shun the company of the first.
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My hope and treasure lies above
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Wisdom with an inheritance is good, but wisdom without an inheritance is better than an inheritance without wisdom.
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I am obnoxious to each carping tongue who says my hand a needle better fits.
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I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold or all the riches that the East doth hold.
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If we had not winter, the spring would not be so pleasant if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.
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When I behold the heavens as in their prime, And then the earth (though old) still clad in green, The stones and trees, insensible of time, Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen
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I happy am, if well with you.
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What to my Saviour shall I giveWho freely hath done this for me?I'll serve him here whilst I shall liveAnd Loue him to Eternity
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The world no longer lets me love, My hope and treasure are above.
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Satan, that great angler, hath his sundry baits for sundry tempers of men, which they all catch greedily at, but few perceive the hook till it be too late.
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My love is such that Rivers cannot quench, Nor ought but love from thee, give recompence. Thy love is such I can no way repay, The heavens reward thee manifold I pray.
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It is reported of the peacock that priding himself in his gay feathers he ruffles them up but spying his black feet he soon lets fall his plumes. So he that glories in his gifts and adornings should look upon his corruptions, and that will damp his high thoughts.
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