To Be Content With Death May Be

It Is We That Are Blind, Not Fortune; Because Our Eye Is Too Dim To Discern The Mystery Of Her Effects, We Foolishly Paint Her Blind, And Hoodwink The Providence Of The Almighty.

There Is No Man Alone, Because Every Man Is A Microcosm, And Carries The Whole World About Him.

Times Before You, When Even The Living Men Were Antiquities; When The Living Might Exceed The Dead, And To Depart This World, Could Not Be Properly Said, To Go Unto The Greater Number.

There Are Wonders In True Affection. It Is A Body Of Enigmas, Mysteries, And Riddles, Wherein Two So Become One, As They Both Become Two.

The World, Which Took Six Days To Make, Is Likely To Take Us Six Thousand Years To Make Out.