Life Itself Is But The Shadow Of

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.

He That Unburied Lies Wants Not His Hearse, For Unto Him A Tomb's The Universe.

To Ruminate Upon Evils, To Make Critical Notes Upon Injuries, And Be Too Acute In Their Apprehensions, Is To Add Unto Our Own Tortures, To Feather The Arrows Of Our Enemies, To Lash Ourselves With The Scorpions Of Our Foes, And To Resolve To Sleep No More.

Study Prophecies When They Are Become Histories.

With What Shift And Pains We Come Into The World We Remember Not; But 'tis Commonly Found No Easy Matter To Get Out Of It.