An Untempted Woman Cannot Boast Of Her

There Are As Many And Innumerable Degrees Of Wit, As There Are Cubits Between This And Heaven.

We Have No Participation In Being, Because All Human Nature Is Ever Midway Between Being Born And Dying, Giving Off Only A Vague Image And Shadow Of Itself, And A Weak And Uncertain Opinion. And If You Chance To Fix Your Thoughts On Trying To Grasp Its Essence, It Would Be Neither More Nor Less Than If Your Tried To Clutch Water.

The Ceaseless Labour Of Your Life Is To Build The House Of Death.

We Must Reserve A Back Shop All Our Own Entirely Free, In Which To Establish Our Real Liberty And Our Principal Retreat And Solitude.

There Is A Plague On Man, The Opinion That He Knows Something.