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

But man is a Noble Animal, splendid in ashes, and pompous in the grave, solemnizing Nativities and Deaths with equal lustre, nor omitting Ceremonies of Bravery, in the infamy of his nature. Life is a pure flame, and we live by an invisible Sun within us.

Life itself is but the shadow of death, and souls departed but the shadows of the living.

There is a rabble among the gentry as well as the commonalty; a sort of plebeian heads whose fancy moves with the same wheel as these men?in the same level with mechanics, though their fortunes do sometimes gild their infirmities and their purses compound for their follies.

As sins proceed they ever multiply, and like figures in arithmetic, the last stands for more than all that wert before it.

The heart of man is the place the devil dwells in; I feel sometimes a hell within myself.

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