All Things Are Artificial, For Nature Is

Sleep Is Death's Younger Brother, And So Like Him, That I Never Dare Trust Him Without My Prayers.

To Make An End Of All Things On Earth, And Our Planetical System Of The World, He (god) Need But Put Out The Sun.

Where I Cannot Satisfy My Reason, I Love To Humour My Fancy.

I Am In No Way Facetious, Nor Disposed For The Mirth And Galliardize Of Company, Yet In One Dream I Can Compose A Whole Comedy, Behold The Action, Apprehend The Jests, And Laugh Myself Awake At The Conceits Thereof.

I Would Not Live Over My Hours Past ... Not Unto Cicero's Ground Because I Have Lived Them Well, But For Fear I Should Live Them Worse.