For A Desperate Disease A Desperate Cure.

The Bees Pillage The Flowers Here And There But They Make Honey Of Them Which Is All Their Own; It Is No Longer Thyme Or Marjolaine: So The Pieces Borrowed From Others He Will Transform And Mix Up Into A Work All His Own.

Tis The Taste Of Effeminacy That Disrelishes Ordinary And Accustomed Things.

Any Person Of Honor Chooses Rather To Lose His Honor Than To Lose His Conscience.

The Laws Of Conscience, Though We Ascribe Them To Nature, Actually Come From Custom.

Wisdom Is A Solid And Entire Building, Of Which Every Piece Keeps Its Place And Bears Its Mark.