Pleasure Admitted In Undue Degree, Enslaves The

But What Is Truth? 'twas Pilate's Question Put To Truth Itself, That Deign'd Him No Reply.

Thieves At Home Must Hang; But He That Puts Into His Overgorged And Bloated Purse The Wealth Of Indian Provinces, Escapes.

In A Fleshly Tomb, I Am Buried Above Ground.

The Rich Are Too Indolent, The Poor Too Weak, To Bear The Insupportable Fatigue Of Thinking.

Remorse, The Fatal Egg That Pleasure Laid.