Doubt, Of Whatever Kind, Can Be Ended

Secrecy Is The Element Of All Goodness; Even Virtue, Even Beauty Is Mysterious.

Reform, Like Charity, Must Begin At Home.

The All Of Things Is An Infinite Conjugation Of The Verb To Do .

The Eternal Stars Shine Out Again, So Soon As It Is Dark Enough.

But The Whim We Have Of Happiness Is Somewhat Thus. By Certain Valuations, And Averages, Of Our Own Striking, We Come Upon Some Sort Of Average Terrestrial Lot; This We Fancy Belongs To Us By Nature, And Of Indefeasible Rights. It Is Simple Payment Of Our Wages, Of Our Deserts; Requires Neither Thanks Nor Complaint. Foolish Soul! What Act Of Legislature Was There That Thou Shouldst Be Happy? A Little While Ago Thou Hadst No Right To Be At All.