That have enlodged themselves in books, leave there
A record of their greatness. Learned men
Have conned the documents, that sages writ,
With care unceasing, and at last confessed
They had not reached the ultimate of thought
Embodied in them. What must be the depths,
The vast profundities of pages penned
From perfect inspiration? Christ hath said
Flesh profits nothing, but the words I speak
Are spirit and are life. The letter kills,