Who Naught Suspects Is Easily Deceived.

Where You Are Is Of No Moment, But Only What You Are Doing There. It Is Not The Place That Ennobles You, But You The Place, And This Only By Doing That Which Is Great And Noble.

I Desire That Death Find Me Ready And Writing, Or If It Please Christ, Praying And Intears.

In My Younger Days I Struggled Constantly With An Overwhelming But Pure Love Affair - My Only One, And I Would Have Struggled With It Longer Had Not Premature Death, Bitter But Salutary For Me, Extinguished The Cooling Flames. I Certainly Wish I Could Say That I Have Always Been Entirely Free From Desires Of The Flesh, But I Would Be Lying If I Did.

Each Famous Author Of Antiquity Whom I Recover Places A New Offence And Another Cause Of Dishonor To The Charge Of Earlier Generations, Who, Not Satisfied With Their Own Disgraceful Barrenness, Permitted The Fruit Of Other Minds, And The Writings That Their Ancestors Had Produced By Toil And Application, To Perish Through Insufferable Neglect. Although They Had Nothing Of Their Own To Hand Down To Those Who Were To Come After, They Robbed Posterity Of Its Ancestral Heritage.

And I Live On, But In Grief And Self-contempt, Left Here Without The Light I Loved So Much, In A Great Tempest And With Shrouds Unkempt.