Whoever Will Imagine A Perpetual Confession Of

Virtue Shuns Ease As A Companion. It Demands A Rough And Thorny Path.

Aesop, That Great Man, Saw His Master Making Water As He Walked. "what!" He Said, "must We Void Ourselves As We Run?" Use Our Timeas Best We May, Yet A Great Part Of It Will Still Be Idly And Ill Spent.

We Only Labor To Stuff The Memory, And Leave The Conscience And The Understanding Unfurnished And Void.

The Ceaseless Labour Of Your Life Is To Build The House Of Death.

Nature Has With A Motherly Tenderness Observed This, That The Action She Has Enjoyned Us For Our Necessity Should Be Also Pleasant To Us, And Invites Us To Them, Not Only By Reason, But Also By Appetite: And ’tis Injustice To Infringe Her Laws.