The Mortalist Enemy Unto Knowledge, And That

He Is Rich Who Hath Enough To Be Charitable.

We Carry Within Us The Wonders We Seek Without Us.

To Ruminate Upon Evils, To Make Critical Notes Upon Injuries, And Be Too Acute In Their Apprehensions, Is To Add Unto Our Own Tortures, To Feather The Arrows Of Our Enemies, To Lash Ourselves With The Scorpions Of Our Foes, And To Resolve To Sleep No More.

He That Unburied Lies Wants Not His Hearse, For Unto Him A Tomb's The Universe.

There Is Music Wherever There Is Harmony, Order And Proportion; And Thus Far We May Maintain The Music Of The Spheres; For Those Well Ordered Motions, And Regular Paces, Though They Give No Sound Unto The Ear, Yet To The Understanding They Strike A Note Most Full Of Harmony.