Ourselves Are To Ourselves The Cause Of

Little Do Such Men Know The Toil, The Pains, The Daily, Nightly Racking Of The Brains, To Range The Thoughts, The Matter To Digest, To Cull Fit Phrases, And Reject The Rest.

Enough Of Self, That Darling Luscious Theme, O'er Which Philosophers In Raptures Dream; Of Which With Seeming Disregard They Write Then Prizing Most When Most They Seem To Slight.

The More Haste, Ever The Worst Speed.

Patience Is Sorrow's Salve.

The Rigid Saint, By Whom No Mercy's Shown To Saints Whose Lives Are Better Than His Own.