The Life Of The Dead

The Happiest End Of Life Is This: When The Mind And The Other Senses Being Unimpaired, The Same Nature Which Put It Together Takes Asunder Her Own Work.

There Is No Treasure The Which May Be Compared Unto A Faithful Friend; Gold Some Decayeth, And Worldly Wealth Consumeth, And Wasteth In The Winde; But Love Once Planted In A Perfect And Pure Minde Indureth Weale And Woe; The Frownes Of Fortune, Come They Never So Unkinde, Cannot The Same Overthrowe.

Let Art, Then, Imitate Nature, Find What She Desires, And Follow As She Directs. For In Invention Nature Is Never Last, Education Never First; Rather The Beginnings Of Things Arise From Natural Talent, And Ends Are Reached By Discipline.

We Are Born Poets. We Become Orators.

A Bureaucrat Is The Most Despicable Of Men, Though He Is Needed As Vultures Are Needed, But One Hardly Admires Vultures Whom Bureaucrats So Strangely Resemble. I Have Yet To Meet A Bureaucrat Who Was Not Petty, Dull, Almost Witless, Crafty Or Stupid, An Oppressor Or A Thief, A Holder Of Little Authority In Which He Delights, As A Boy Delights In Possessing A Vicious Dog. Who Can Trust Such Creatures?