I Envy No Man That Knows More

The Religion Of One Seems Madness Unto Another.

The Created World Is But A Small Parenthesis In Eternity.

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.

Men That Look No Further Than Their Outsides, Think Health An Appurtenance Unto Life, And Quarrel With Their Constitutions For Being Sick; But I That Have Examined The Parts Of Man, And Know Upon What Tender Filaments That Fabric Hangs, Do Wonder That We Are Not Always So; And Considering The Thousand Doors That Lead To Death, Do Thank My God That We Can Die But Once.

But The Iniquity Of Oblivion Blindly Scattereth Her Poppy, And Deals With The Memory Of Men Without Distinction To Merit Of Perpetuity.