Where There Is No Law There Is

Our Deeds Disguise Us. People Need Endless Time To Try On Their Deeds, Until Each Knows The Proper Deeds For Him To Do. But Every Day, Every Hour, Rushes By. There Is No Time.

When Ideas Float In Our Mind, Without Any Reflection Or Regard Of The Understanding, It Is That Which The French Call Reverie.

Habits Wear More Constantly And With Greatest Force Than Reason, Which, When We Have Most Need Of It, Is Seldom Fairly Consulted, And More Rarely Obeyed

Any One Reflecting Upon The Thought He Has Of The Delight, Which Any Present Or Absent Thing Is Apt To Produce In Him, Has The Idea We Call Love.

Probability Is A Kind Of Penance, Which God Made, Suitable, I Presume To That State Of Mediocrity And Probationership He Has Been Pleased To Place Us In Here; Wherein, To Check Our Over-confidence And Presumption, We Might, By Every Day's Experience, Be Made Sensible Of Our Short-sightedness, And Liableness To Error.