Not Even The Vicissitudes Of Fortune Are

There Is Nothing Happens To Any Person But What Was In His Power To Go Through With.

What We Do In Life Ripples In Eternity.

In The Life Of A Man, His Time Is But A Moment, His Being An Incessant Flux, His Sense A Dim Rushlight, His Body A Prey Of Worms, His Soul An Unquiet Eddy, His Fortune Dark, His Fame Doubtful. In Short, All That Is Body Is As Coursing Waters, All That Is Of The Soul As Dreams And Vapors.

You Should Banish Any Thoughts Of How You May Appear To Others.

Things Themselves Cannot Touch The Soul, Not In The Least Degree, Nor Have They Admission To The Soul Nor Can They Turn Or Move The Soul: It Turns And Moves Itself Alone And Whatever Judgment It May Think Proper To Make, Such It Makes By Remaking For Itself The Things That Present Themselves To It