Gardens Were Before Gardeners, And But Some

There Are Mystically In Our Faces Certain Characters Which Carry In Them The Motto Of Our Souls, Wherein He That Cannot Read May Read Our Natures.

Where I Cannot Satisfy My Reason, I Love To Humour My Fancy.

Whosoever Enjoys Not This Life, I Count Him But An Apparition, Though He Wear About Him The Sensible Affections Of Flesh. In These Moral Acceptions, The Way To Be Immortal Is To Die Daily.

Many-have Too Rashly Charged The Troops Of Error, And Remain As Trophies Unto The Enemies Of Truth.

Life Itself Is But The Shadow Of Death, And Souls Departed But The Shadows Of The Living: All Things Fall Under This Name. The Sun Itself Is But The Dark Simulacrum, And The Light But The Shadow Of God.