Half Our Days We Pass In The

What Song The Syrens Sang, Or What Name Achilles Assumed When He Hid Himself Among Women, Though Puzzling Questions, Are Not Beyond All Conjecture.

Life Itself Is But The Shadow Of Death, And Souls Departed But The Shadows Of The Living: All Things Fall Under This Name. The Sun Itself Is But The Dark Simulacrum, And The Light But The Shadow Of God.

I Have Tried If I Could Reach That Great Resolution . . . To Be Honest Without A Thought Of Heaven Or Hell.

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

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.