And Empty Heads Console With

Who Know But He, Whose Hand The Lightning Forms, Who Heaves Old Ocean, And Who Wings The Storms, Pours Fierce Ambition In A Caesar's Mind.

There Still Remains To Mortify A Wit The Many-headed Monster Of The Pit.

Sickness Is A Sort Of Early Old Age; It Teaches Us A Diffidence In Our Earthly State.

One Science Only Will One Genius Fit; So Vast Is Art, So Narrow Human Wit.

Therefore They Who Say Our Thoughts Are Not Our Own Because They Resemble The Ancients, May As Well Say Our Faces Are Not Our Own, Because They Are Like Our Fathers: And Indeed It Is Very Unreasonable, That People Should Expect Us To Be Scholars, And Yet Be Angry To Find Us So.