We All Labour Against Our Own Cure,

It Is The Common Wonder Of All Men, How Among So Many Million Faces, There Should Be None Alike.

As For Those Wingy Mysteries In Divinity, And Airy Subtleties In Religion, Which Have Unhinged The Brains Of Better Heads, They Never Stretched The Pia Mater Of Mine; Methinks There Be Not Impossibilities Enough In Religion For An Active Faith.

I Love To Lose Myself In A Mystery To Pursue My Reason To An O Altitudo.

Had Not Almost Every Man Suffered By The Press, Or Were Not The Tyranny Thereof Become Universal, I Had Not Wanted Reason For Complaint.

All Things Are Artificial, For Nature Is The Art Of God.