Sleep Is A Death, O Make Me

What Then Is The Wisdom Of The Times Called Old? Is It The Wisdom Of Gray Hairs? No. It Is The Wisdom Of The Cradle.

Every Country Hath Its Machiavel.

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.

For My Part, I Have Ever Believed, And Do Now Know, That There Are Witches.

That Miracles Have Been, I Do Believe; That They May Yet Be Wrought By The Living, I Do Not Deny: But Have No Confidence In Those Which Are Fathered On The Dead.