It Is The Common Wonder

The Man Without A Navel Still Lives In Me.

To Ruminate Upon Evils, To Make Critical Notes Upon Injuries, And Be Too Acute In Their Apprehensions, Is To Add Unto Our Own Tortures, To Feather The Arrows Of Our Enemies, To Lash Ourselves With The Scorpions Of Our Foes, And To Resolve To Sleep No More.

For There Is A Music Wherever There Is A Harmony, Order, Or Proportion, And Thus Far We May Maintain The Music Of The Spheres.

I Can Cure The Gout Or Stone In Some, Sooner Than Divinity, Pride, Or Avarice In Others.

Circles And Right Lines Limit And Close All Bodies, And The Mortal Right-lined Circle Must Conclude And Shut Up All.