As For Those Wingy Mysteries In Divinity,

We Do But Learn To-day What Our Better Advanced Judgements Will Unteach Us Tomorrow.

Life Itself Is But The Shadow Of Death, And Souls Departed But The Shadows Of The Living.

I Had Rather Stand The Shock Of A Basilisk Than The Fury Of A Merciless Pen.

Miserable Men Commiserate Not Themselves; Bowelless Unto Others, And Merciless Unto Their Own Bowels.

To Call Ourselves A Microcosme, Or Little World, I Thought It Onely A Pleasant Trope Of Rhetorick, Till My Neare Judgement And Second Thoughts Told Me There Was A Reall Truth Therein: For First Wee Are A Rude Masse, And In The Ranke Of Creatures, Which Only Are, And Have A Dull Kinde Of Being Not Yet Priviledged With Life, Or Preferred To Sense Or Reason; Next We Live The Life Of Plants, The Life Of Animals, The Life Of Men, And At Last The Life Of Spirits, Running On In One Mysterious Nature Those Five Kinds Of Existence, Which Comprehend The Creatures Not Onely Of World, But Of The Universe.