There Is Musick, Even In

If There Be Any Among Those Common Objects Of Hatred I Do Contemn And Laugh At, It Is That Great Enemy Of Reason, Virtue, And Religion, The Multitude; That Numerous Piece Of Monstrosity, Which, Taken Asunder, Seem Men, And The Reasonable Creatures Of God, But, Confused Together, Make But One Great Beast, And A Monstrosity More Prodigious Than Hydra.

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

I Could Be Content That We Might Procreate Like Trees, Without Conjunction, Or That We Were Any Way To Perpetuate The World Without This Trivial And Vulgar Way Of Coition; It Is The Foolishest Act A Wise Man Commits In All His Life.

We Term Sleep A Death, And Yet It Is Waking That Kills Us, And Destroys Those Spirits That Are The House Of Life.

A Man Is Never Alone, Not Only Because He Is With Himself And His Own Thoughts, But Because He Is With The Devil, Who Ever Consorts With Our Solitude.