Hell Has No Benefits, Only Torture.

Swinish Gluttony Never Looks To Heaven Amidst Its Gorgeous Feast; But With Besotted, Base Ingratitude, Cravens And Blasphemes His Feeder.

Fate Shall Yield To Fickle Chance, And Chaos Judge The Strife.

In Those Vernal Seasons Of The Year When The Air Is Calm And Pleasant, It Were An Injury And Sullenness Against Nature Not To Go Out And See Her Riches, And Partake In Her Rejoicing With Heaven And Earth.

The Childhood Shows The Man, As Morning Shows The Day.

Ink Is The Blood Of The Printing-press.