Half Our Days We Pass

The Vices We Scoff At In Others Laugh At Us Within Ourselves.

Think Not Silence The Wisdom Of Fools; But, If Rightly Timed, The Honor Of Wise Men, Who Have Not The Infirmity, But The Virtue Of Taciturnity.

Art Is The Perfection Of Nature, ... Nature Is The Art Of God.

But Man Is A Noble Animal, Splendid In Ashes, And Pompous In The Grave, Solemnizing Nativities And Deaths With Equal Lustre, Nor Omitting Ceremonies Of Bravery, In The Infamy Of His Nature. Life Is A Pure Flame, And We Live By An Invisible Sun Within Us.

We Term Sleep A Death By Which We May Be Literally Said To Die Daily; In Fine, So Like Death, I Dare Not Trust It Without My Prayers.