It Is We That Are Blind, Not

Think Not Thy Time Short In This World, Since The World Itself Is Not Long. The Created World Is But A Small Parenthesis In Eternity, And A Short Interposition, For A Time, Between Such A State Of Duration As Was Before It And May Be After It.

The Vices We Scoff At In Others Laugh At Us Within Ourselves.

Nature Proceeds Little By Little From Things Lifeless To Animal Life In Such A Way That It Is Impossible To Determine The Exact Line Ure Hath Made One World, And Art Another. In Brief, All Things Are Artificial; For Nature Is The Art Of God.

A Man May Be In As Just Possession Of The Truth As Of A City, And Yet Be Forced To Surrender.

We Term Sleep A Death By Which We May Be Literally Said To Die Daily; In Fine, So Like Death, I Dare Not Trust It Without My Prayers.