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S. AUGUST. lib. Confess.
O you that dote upon this world, for what victory do ye sight? Your hopes can be crowned with no greater reward then the world can give; and what is the world but a brittle thing full of dangers, wherein we travel from lesser to greater perils? O let all her vain, light, and momentany glory perish with her self, and let us be conversant with more eternall things. Alas, this world is miserable; life is short, and death is sure.