Times Before You, When Even The Living

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

We Term Sleep A Death, And Yet It Is Waking That Kills Us, And Destroys Those Spirits That Are The House Of Life.

I Could Be Content That We Might Procreate Like Trees, Without Conjunction, Or That We Were Any Way To Perpetuate The World Without This Trivial And Vulgar Way Of Coition; It Is The Foolishest Act A Wise Man Commits In All His Life.

The Heart Of Man Is The Place The Devil Dwells In; I Feel Sometimes A Hell Within Myself.

Age Doth Not Rectify, But Incurvate Our Natures, Turning Bad Dispositions Into Worser Habits.