All Things Are Artificial, For Nature Is

Whosoever Enjoys Not This Life, I Count Him But An Apparition, Though He Wear About Him The Sensible Affections Of Flesh. In These Moral Acceptions, The Way To Be Immortal Is To Die Daily.

To Extend Our Memories By Monuments, Whose Death We Daily Pray For, And Whose Duration We Cannot Hope, Without Injury To Our Expectations In The Advent Of The Last Day, Were A Contradiction To Our Belief.

Think Not Silence The Wisdom Of Fools; But, If Rightly Timed, The Honor Of Wise Men, Who Have Not The Infirmity, But The Virtue Of Taciturnity.

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

To Ruminate Upon Evils, To Make Critical Notes Upon Injuries, And Be Too Acute In Their Apprehensions, Is To Add Unto Our Own Tortures, To Feather The Arrows Of Our Enemies, To Lash Ourselves With The Scorpions Of Our Foes, And To Resolve To Sleep No More.