Where Life Is More Terrible Than Death,

Who Knows Whether The Best Of Men Be Known? Or Whether There Be Not More Remarkable Persons Forgot, Than Any That Stand Remembered In The Known Account Of Time?

Men Have Lost Their Reason In Nothing So Much As Their Religion, Wherein Stones And Clouts Make Martyrs.

The Created World Is But A Small Parenthesis In Eternity.

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

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