There Is A Plague On Man, The

How Many Worthy Men Have We Known To Survive Their Own Reputation, Who Have Seen And Suffered The Honor And Glory Most Justly Acquired In Their Youth, Extinguished In Their Own Presence?

The Perpetual Work Of Your Life Is But To Lay The Foundation Of Death.

But Sure There Is Need Of Other Remedies Than Dreaming, A Weak Contention Of Art Against Nature.

When I Dance, I Dance; When I Sleep, I Sleep; Yes, And When I Walk Alone In A Beautiful Orchard, If My Thoughts Drift To Far-off Matters For Some Part Of The Time For Some Other Part I Lead Them Back Again To The Walk, The Orchard, To The Sweetness Of This Solitude, To Myself.

And Obstinacy Is The Sister Of Constancy, At Least In Vigour And Stability.