Amidst The Soft Variety I'm Lost.

The End Of A Man's Life Is Often Compared To The Winding Up Of A Well Written Play, Where The Principal Persons Still Act In Character, Whatever The Fate In Which They Undergo.

It Is Certain That There Is No Other Passion Which Does Produce Such Contrary Effects In So Great A Degree. But This May Be Said For Love, That If You Strike It Out Of The Soul, Life Would Be Insipid, And Our Being But Half Animated.

Hypocrisy Itself Does Great Honor, Or Rather Justice, To Religion, And Tacitly Acknowledges It To Be An Ornament To Human Nature. The Hypocrite Would Not Be At So Much Pains To Put On The Appearance Of Virtue, If He Did Not Know It Was The Most Proper And Effectual Means To Gain The Love And Esteem Of Mankind.

It Must Be So,-plato, Thou Reasonest Well! Else Whence This Pleasing Hope, This Fond Desire, This Longing After Immortality? Or Whence This Secret Dread And Inward Horror Of Falling Into Naught? Why Shrinks The Soul Back On Herself, And Startles At Destruction? 't Is The Divinity That Stirs Within Us; 't Is Heaven Itself That Points Out An Hereafter, And Intimates Eternity To Man. Eternity! Thou Pleasing, Dreadful Thought!

Honour's A Sacred Tie, The Law Of Kings, The Noble Mind's Distinguishing Perfection That Aids And Strengthens Virtue Where It Meets Her And Imitates Her Actions Where She Is Not: It Is Not To Be Sported With.