Cowardice Is The Mother Of Cruelty.

I Would Have Every Man Write What He Knows And No More.

Men Throw Themselves On Foreign Assistances To Spare Their Own, Which, After All, Are The Only Certain And Sufficient Ones.

When I Dance, I Dance; When I Sleep, I Sleep; Yes, And When I Walk Alone In A Beautiful Orchard, If My Thoughts Drift To Far-off Matters For Some Part Of The Time For Some Other Part I Lead Them Back Again To The Walk, The Orchard, To The Sweetness Of This Solitude, To Myself.

Off I Go, Rummaging About In Books For Sayings Which Please Me.

Hath God Obliged Himself Not To Exceed The Bounds Of Our Knowledge?