To Make An End Of All Things

Yet Is Every Man His Greatest Enemy, And, As It Were, His Own Executioner.

Who Knows Whether The Best Of Men Be Known? Or Whether There Be Not More Remarkable Persons Forgot, Than Any That Stand Remembered In The Known Account Of Time?

Flattery Is A Juggler, And No Kin Unto Sincerity.

Miserable Men Commiserate Not Themselves; Bowelless Unto Others, And Merciless Unto Their Own Bowels.

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.