The Man Who Doesn't Know What The

A Rational Nature Admits Of Nothing But What Is Serviceable To The Rest Of Mankind.

Everything Is Interwoven, And The Web Is Holy.

Waste Not The Remnant Of Thy Life In Those Imaginations Touching Other Folk, Whereby Thou Contributest Not To The Common Weal.

I Have Often Wondered How It Is That Every Man Loves Himself More Than All The Rest Of Men, But Yet Sets Less Value On His Own Opinions Of Himself Than On The Opinions Of Others.

Death Is A Release From The Impressions Of The Senses, And From Desires That Make Us Their Puppets, And From The Vagaries Of The Mind, And From The Hard Service Of The Flesh.