Every Country Hath Its Machiavel.

Sleep Is A Death, O Make Me Try By Sleeping, What It Is To Die, And As Gently Lay My Head On My Grave, As Now My Bed.

If There Be Any Among Those Common Objects Of Hatred I Do Contemn And Laugh At, It Is That Great Enemy Of Reason, Virtue, And Religion, The Multitude; That Numerous Piece Of Monstrosity, Which, Taken Asunder, Seem Men, And The Reasonable Creatures Of God, But, Confused Together, Make But One Great Beast, And A Monstrosity More Prodigious Than Hydra.

Every Country Hath Its Machiavel.

But Man Is A Noble Animal, Splendid In Ashes, And Pompous In The Grave, Solemnizing Nativities And Deaths With Equal Lustre, Nor Omitting Ceremonies Of Bravery, In The Infamy Of His Nature. Life Is A Pure Flame, And We Live By An Invisible Sun Within Us.

They That Endeavour To Abolish Vice Destroy Also Virtue, For Contraries, Though They Destroy One Another, Are Yet The Life Of One Another.