There Is Musick, Even In

As Sins Proceed They Ever Multiply, And Like Figures In Arithmetic, The Last Stands For More Than All That Wert Before It.

He Is Like To Be Mistaken Who Makes Choice Of A Covetous Man For A Friend, Or Relieth Upon The Reed Of Narrow And Poltroon Friendship. Pitiful Things Are Only To Be Found In The Cottages Of Such Breasts; But Bright Thoughts, Clear Deeds, Constancy, Fidelity, Bounty And Generous Honesty Are The Gems Of Noble Minds, Wherein (to Derogate From None) The True, Heroic English Gentleman Hath No Peer.

The Heart Of Man Is The Place The Devil Dwells In; I Feel Sometimes A Hell Within Myself.

The Man Without A Navel Still Lives In Me.

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