To Me Avarice Seems Not So Much

Every Country Hath Its Machiavel.

To Be Nameless In Worthy Deeds Exceeds An Infamous History.

We Term Sleep A Death, And Yet It Is Waking That Kills Us, And Destroys Those Spirits That Are The House Of Life.

Whosoever Enjoys Not This Life, I Count Him But An Apparition, Though He Wear About Him The Sensible Affections Of Flesh. In These Moral Acceptions, The Way To Be Immortal Is To Die Daily.

There Is Surely A Piece Of Divinity In Us, Something Was Before The Elements, And Owes No Homage Unto The Sun.