To Me Avarice Seems Not So Much

To Extend Our Memories By Monuments, Whose Death We Daily Pray For, And Whose Duration We Cannot Hope, Without Injury To Our Expectations In The Advent Of The Last Day, Were A Contradiction To Our Belief.

Flattery Is A Juggler, And No Kin Unto Sincerity.

But Man Is A Noble Animal, Splendid In Ashes, And Pompous In The Grave, Solemnizing Nativities And Deaths With Equal Lustre, Nor Omitting Ceremonies Of Bravery, In The Infamy Of His Nature. Life Is A Pure Flame, And We Live By An Invisible Sun Within Us.

Life Itself Is But The Shadow Of Death, And Souls Departed But The Shadows Of The Living: All Things Fall Under This Name. The Sun Itself Is But The Dark Simulacrum, And The Light But The Shadow Of God.

He Who Discommendeth Others Obliquely Commendeth Himself (christian Morals).