There Is Not So Variable A Thing

Is There Not Some Chosen Curse, Some Hidden Thunder In The Stores Of Heaven, Red With Uncommon Wrath, To Blast The Man Who Owes His Greatness To His Country's Ruin!

T Is The Divinity That Stirs Within Us.

Musick Is Certainly A Very Agreeable Entertainment, But If It Would Take The Entire Possession Of Our Ears, If It Would Make Us Incapable Of Hearing Sense, If It Would Exclude Arts That Have A Much Greater Tendency To The Refinement Of Human Nature; I Must Confess I Would Allow It No Better Quarter Than Plato Has Done, Who Banishes It Out Of His Common-wealth.

Beauty Commonly Produces Love, But Cleanliness Preserves It. Age Itself Is Not Unamiable While It Is Preserved Clean And Unsullied; Like A Piece Of Metal Constantly Kept Smooth And Bright, We Look On It With More Pleasure Than On A New Vessel Cankered With Rust.

Love, Anger, Pride And Avarice All Visibly Move In Those Little Orbs.