The Ceaseless Labour Of Your Life Is

The World Is But A School Of Inquisition; It Is Not Who Shall Enter The Ring, But Who Shall Run The Best Courses.

Tis The Taste Of Effeminacy That Disrelishes Ordinary And Accustomed Things.

I Am Much Afraid That We Shall Have Very Greatly Hastened The Decline And Ruin Of The New World By Our Contagion, And That We Willhave Sold It Our Opinions And Our Arts Very Dear.

Men Do Not Know The Natural Infirmity Of Their Mind: It Does Nothing But Ferret And Quest, And Keeps Incessantly Whirling Around, Building Up And Becoming Entangled In Its Own Work, Like Silkworms, And Is Suffocated In It. A Mouse In A Pitch Barrel...thinks It Notices From A Distance Some Sort Of Glimmer Of Imaginary Light And Truth; But While Running Toward It, It Is Crossed By So Many Difficulties And Obstacles, And Diverted By So Many New Quests, That It Strays From The Road, Bewildered.

I Have Seen People Rude By Being Over-polite.