In-Text |
as 'tis daily mudling up and down the World, hugging (as it were) each piece of Dunghil, saluting every fulsom Object, rowling it self in the Dirt and Mire, Can we imagine such a Soul as this in the least fit for Heaven, where nothing enters in that defiles; |
as it's daily mudling up and down the World, hugging (as it were) each piece of Dunghill, saluting every fulsome Object, rolling it self in the Dirt and Mire, Can we imagine such a Soul as this in the least fit for Heaven, where nothing enters in that defiles; |
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