Grave-stones tell truth scarce forty years. Generations pass while families last not three oaks.

All the wonders you seek are within yourself.

We term sleep a death by which we may be literally said to die daily; in fine, so like death, I dare not trust it without my prayers.

To me avarice seems not so much a vice as a deplorable piece of madness.

But the iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit of perpetuity.

Do the devils lie? No; for then even hell could not subsist.

For the world, I count it not an inn, but a hospital; and a place not to live, but to die in.