Oblivion Is Not To Be

The Created World Is But A Small Parenthesis In Eternity.

Sleep Is A Death, O Make Me Try By Sleeping, What It Is To Die, And As Gently Lay My Head On My Grave, As Now My Bed.

Nature Proceeds Little By Little From Things Lifeless To Animal Life In Such A Way That It Is Impossible To Determine The Exact Line Ure Hath Made One World, And Art Another. In Brief, All Things Are Artificial; For Nature Is The Art Of God.

There Is No Man Alone, Because Every Man Is A Microcosm, And Carries The Whole World About Him.

Praise Is A Debt We Owe Unto The Virtue Of Others, And Due Unto Our Own From All Whom Malice Hath Not Made Mutes, Or Envy Struck Dumb.