Rich With The Spoils Of Nature.

For The World, I Count It Not An Inn, But A Hospital; And A Place Not To Live, But To Die In.

I Am The Happiest Man Alive. I Have That In Me That Can Convert Poverty To Riches, Adversity To Prosperity, And I Am More Invulnerable Than Archilles; Fortune Hath Not One Place To Hit Me.

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

But Man Is A Noble Animal, Splendid In Ashes, And Pompous In The Grave, Solemnizing Nativities And Deaths With Equal Lustre, Nor Omitting Ceremonies Of Bravery, In The Infamy Of His Nature. Life Is A Pure Flame, And We Live By An Invisible Sun Within Us.

By Compassion We Make Others' Misery Our Own, And So, By Relieving Them, We Relieve Ourselves Also.