Custom Is Almost A Second Nature.

When Malice Is Joined To Envy, There Is Given Forth Poisonous And Feculent Matter, As Ink From The Cuttle-fish.

To Harmodius, Descended From The Ancient Harmodius, When He Reviled Iphicrates [a Shoemaker's Son] For His Mean Birth, "my Nobility," Said He, "begins In Me, But Yours Ends In You.

If You Declare That You Are Naturally Designed For Such A Diet, Then First Kill For Yourself What You Want To Eat. Do It, However, Only Through Your Own Resources, Unaided By Cleaver Or Cudgel Or Any Kind Of Ax

Demosthenes, When Taunted By Pytheas That All His Arguments "smelled Of The Lamp," Replied, "yes, But Your Lamp And Mine, My Friend, Do Not Witness The Same Labours.

For, In The Language Of Heraclitus, The Virtuous Soul Is Pure And Unmixed Light, Springing From The Body As A Flash Of Lightning Darts From The Cloud. But The Soul That Is Carnal And Immersed In Sense, Like A Heavy And Dank Vapor, Can With Difficulty Be Kindled, And Caused To Raise Its Eyes Heavenward.