Where I Cannot Satisfy My Reason, I

Were The Happiness Of The Next World Is As Closely Apprehended As The Felicities Of This, It Were A Martyrdom To Live.

As Sins Proceed They Ever Multiply, And Like Figures In Arithmetic, The Last Stands For More Than All That Wert Before It.

There Is Musick, Even In The Beauty And The Silent Note Which Cupid Strikes, Far Sweeter Than The Sound Of An Instrument.

We All Labour Against Our Own Cure, For Death Is The Cure Of All Diseases.

There Is No Man Alone, Because Every Man Is A Microcosm, And Carries The Whole World About Him.