There Is Musick, Even In The Beauty

Light That Makes Things Seen, Makes Some Things Invisible.

We All Labour Against Our Own Cure, For Death Is The Cure Of All Diseases.

Praise Is A Debt We Owe Unto The Virtue Of Others, And Due Unto Our Own From All Whom Malice Hath Not Made Mutes, Or Envy Struck Dumb.

There Is No Royal Road Or Ready Way To Virtue.

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