When One Is Transported By Rage, It

Nothing Exists In The Intellect That Has Not First Gone Through The Senses.

Lamentation Is The Only Musician That Always, Like A Screech-owl, Alights And Sits On The Roof Of Any Angry Man.

I, For My Part, Wonder Of What Sort Of Feeling, Mind Or Reason That Man Was Possessed Who Was First To Pollute His Mouth With Gore, And To Allow His Lips To Touch The Flesh Of A Murdered Being: Who Spread His Table With The Mangled Forms Of Dead Bodies, And Claimed As Daily Food And Dainty Dishes What But Now Were Beings Endowed With Movement, Perception And With Voice. …but For The Sake Of Some Little Mouthful Of Flesh, We Deprive A Soul Of The Sun And Light, And Of That Portion Of Life And Time It Had Been Born In To The World To Enjoy.

Poverty Is Never Dishonourable In Itself, But Only When It Is A Mark Of Sloth, Intemperance, Extravagance, Or Thoughtlessness. When, On The Other Hand, It Is The Handmaid Of A Sober, Industrious, Righteous, And Brave Man, Who Devotes All His Powers To The Service Of The People, It Is The Sign Of A Lofty Spirit That Harbours No Mean Thoughts

The Ripeness Of Adolescence Is Prodigal In Pleasures, Skittish, And In Need Of A Bridle.