Sleep Is Death's Younger Brother, And So

Life Itself Is But The Shadow Of Death, And Souls Departed But The Shadows Of The Living.

Men That Look No Further Than Their Outsides, Think Health An Appurtenance Unto Life, And Quarrel With Their Constitutions For Being Sick; But I That Have Examined The Parts Of Man, And Know Upon What Tender Filaments That Fabric Hangs, Do Wonder That We Are Not Always So; And Considering The Thousand Doors That Lead To Death, Do Thank My God That We Can Die But Once.

Had Not Almost Every Man Suffered By The Press, Or Were Not The Tyranny Thereof Become Universal, I Had Not Wanted Reason For Complaint.

I Love To Lose Myself In A Mystery To Pursue My Reason To An O Altitudo.

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