The Created World Is But A Small

Men Live By Intervals Of Reason Under The Sovereignty Of Humor And Passion.

For The World, I Count It Not An Inn, But A Hospital; And A Place Not To Live, But To Die In.

To Extend Our Memories By Monuments, Whose Death We Daily Pray For, And Whose Duration We Cannot Hope, Without Injury To Our Expectations In The Advent Of The Last Day, Were A Contradiction To Our Belief.

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

As For Those Wingy Mysteries In Divinity, And Airy Subtleties In Religion, Which Have Unhinged The Brains Of Better Heads, They Never Stretched The Pia Mater Of Mine; Methinks There Be Not Impossibilities Enough In Religion For An Active Faith.