With How Much Ease Believe We What

Second Thoughts, They Say, Are Best.

Our Souls Sit Close And Silently Within, And Their Own Web From Their Own Entrails Spin; And When Eyes Meet Far Off, Our Sense Is Such, That, Spider-like, We Feel The Tenderest Touch.

Honor Is But An Empty Bubble.

They, Who Would Combat General Authority With Particular Opinion, Must First Establish Themselves A Reputation Of Understanding Better Than Other Men.

Only Man Clogs His Happiness With Care, Destroying What Is With Thoughts Of What May Be.