O, Had I But Followed The Arts!

Past And To Come, Seems Best; Things Present, Worse.

Thrust Your Head Into The Public Street, To Gaze On Christian Fools With Varnish'd Faces.

Tis In Ourselves That We Are Thus Or Thus. Our Bodies Are Our Gardens, To The Which Our Wills Are Gardeners: So That If We Will Plant Nettles, Or Sow Lettuce, Set Hyssop And Weed Up Tine, Supply It With One Gender Of Herbs, Or Distract It With Many, Either To Have It Sterile With Idleness, Or Manured With Industry, Why, The Power And Corrigible Authority Of This Lies In Our Wills.

When Truth Kills Truth, O Devilish Holy Fray!

The Weakest Kind Of Fruit Drops Earliest To The Ground.