For A Desperate Disease A Desperate Cure.

A Wellborn Mind That Is Practiced In Dealing With People Makes Itself Thoroughly Agreeable By Itself. Art Is Nothing Else But Thelist And Record Of The Productions Of Such Minds.

I Would Rather Be An Expert On Me Than On Cicero

Seneca's Virtue Shows Forth So Live And Vigorous In His Writings, And The Defense Is So Clear There Against Some Of These Imputations, As That Of His Wealth And Excessive Spending, That I Would Not Believe Any Testimony To The Contrary.

If Not For That Of Conscience, Yet At Least For Ambition's Sake, Let Us Reject Ambition, Let Us Disdain That Thirst Of Honor And Renown, So Low And Mendicant; That It Makes Us Beg It Of All Sorts Of People.

Now, Since Our Condition Accommodates Things To Itself, And Transforms Them According To Itself, We No Longer Know Things In Their Reality; For Nothing Comes To Us That Is Not Altered And Falsified By Our Senses. When The Compass, The Square, And The Rule Are Untrue, All The Calculations Drawn From Them, All The Buildings Erected By Their Measure, Are Of Necessity Also Defective And Out Of Plumb. The Uncertainty Of Our Senses Renders Uncertain Everything That They Produce.