With Ills Unending Strives The Putter Off.

The Soul That Companies With Virtue Is Like An Ever-flowing Source. It Is A Pure, Clear, And Wholesome Draught, Sweet, Rich And Generous Of Its Store, That Injures Not, Neither Destroys.

Nothing Is In Reality Either Pleasant Or Unpleasant By Nature But All Things Become So Through Habit

It Is Impossible For A Man To Learn What He Thinks He Already Knows.

A Vulgar Man, In Any Ill That Happens To Him, Blames Others; A Novice In Philosophy Blames Himself; And A Philosopher Blames Neither, The One Nor The Other.

One That Desires To Excel Should Endeavor In Those Things That Are In Themselves Most Excellent.