We All Labour Against Our Own Cure,

Rich With The Spoils Of Nature.

Whosoever Enjoys Not This Life, I Count Him But An Apparition, Though He Wear About Him The Sensible Affections Of Flesh. In These Moral Acceptions, The Way To Be Immortal Is To Die Daily.

Content May Dwell In All Stations. To Be Low But Above Contempt May Be High Enough To Be Happy.

There Is Something In Us That Can Be Without Us, And Will Be After Us, Though Indeed It Hath No History Of What It Was Before Us, And Cannot Tell How It Entered Into Us.

As Reason Is A Rebel To Faith, So Passion Is A Rebel To Reason.