May Blessings Be Upon The

Man, It Is Not Thy Works, Which Are Mortal, Infinitely Little, And The Greatest No Greater Than The Least, But Only The Spirit Thou Workest In, That Can Have Worth Or Continuance.

In A Certain Sense All Men Are Historians.

Variety Is The Condition Of Harmony.

Scarcely Two Hundred Years Back Can Fame Recollect Articulately At All; And There She But Maunders And Mumbles.

The Lightning Spark Of Thought Generated In The Solitary Mind Awakens Its Likeness In Another Mind.