Half Our Days We Pass In The

The World, Which Took Six Days To Make, Is Likely To Take Us Six Thousand Years To Make Out.

The Man Without A Navel Still Lives In Me.

Miserable Men Commiserate Not Themselves; Bowelless Unto Others, And Merciless Unto Their Own Bowels.

I Cannot Tell By What Logic We Call A Toad, A Bear, Or An Elephant Ugly; They Being Created In Those Outward Shapes And Figures Which Best Express The Actions Of Their Inward Forms.

That Miracles Have Been, I Do Believe; That They May Yet Be Wrought By The Living, I Do Not Deny: But Have No Confidence In Those Which Are Fathered On The Dead.