The Man Without A Navel Still Lives

To Ruminate Upon Evils, To Make Critical Notes Upon Injuries, And Be Too Acute In Their Apprehensions, Is To Add Unto Our Own Tortures, To Feather The Arrows Of Our Enemies, To Lash Ourselves With The Scorpions Of Our Foes, And To Resolve To Sleep No More.

For There Is A Music Wherever There Is A Harmony, Order, Or Proportion, And Thus Far We May Maintain The Music Of The Spheres.

For The World, I Count It Not An Inn, But A Hospital; And A Place Not To Live, But To Die In.

I Envy No Man That Knows More Than Myself, But Pity Them That Know Less.

I Had Rather Stand The Shock Of A Basilisk Than The Fury Of A Merciless Pen.