Is It Not Strange That

The Purest Treasure Mortal Times Can Afford Is A Spotless Reputation.

The Very Substance Of The Ambitious Is Merely The Shadow Of A Dream.

The Sense Of Death Is Most In Apprehension, And The Poor Beetle, That We Tread Upon, In Corporal Sufferance Finds A Pang As Great As When A Giant Dies.

The Morning Steals Upon The Night, Melting The Darkness.

There Are A Sort Of Men, Whose Visages Do Cream And Mantle, Like A Standing Pond; And Do A Willful Stillness Entertain, With Purpose To Be Dressed In An Opinion Of Wisdom, Gravity Profound Conceit; As Who Should Say, I Am Sir Oracle, And When I Ope My Lips, Let No Dog Bark!