The Bee Enclosed And Through

No Artist Knows In His Own Lifetime Whether What He Does Will Be The Slightest Good, Because It Takes At Least Seventy-five To A Hundred Years Before The Thing Begins To Sort Itself Out.

The Partitions Of Knowledge Are Not Like Several Lines That Meet In One Angle, And So Touch Not In A Point; But Are Like Branches Of A Tree, That Meet In A Stem, Which Hath A Dimension And Quantity Of Entireness And Continuance, Before It Come To Discontinue And Break Itself Into Arms And Boughs.

When A Doubt Is Once Received, Men Labour Rather How To Keep It A Doubt Still, Than How To Solve It; And Accordingly Bend Their Wits.

Defer Not Charities Till Death; For Certainly, If A Man Weigh It Rightly, He That Doth So Is Rather Liberal Of Another Man's Than Of His Own.

The Men Of Experiment Are Like The Ant, They Only Collect And Use; The Reasoners Resemble Spiders, Who Make Cobwebs Out Of Their Own Substance. But The Bee Takes The Middle Course, It Gathers Its Material From The Flowers Of The Garden And Field, But Transforms And Digests It By A Power Of Its Own.