There are mystically in our faces certain characters which carry in them the motto of our souls, wherein he that cannot read may read our natures.

Men live by intervals of reason under the sovereignty of humor and passion.

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.

Where I cannot satisfy my reason, I love to humour my fancy.

It is we that are blind, not fortune; because our eye is too dim to discern the mystery of her effects, we foolishly paint her blind, and hoodwink the providence of the Almighty.

The mortalist enemy unto knowledge, and that which hath done the greatest execution unto truth, has been a preemptory adhesion unto authority.

We term sleep a death, and yet it is waking that kills us, and destroys those spirits that are the house of life.