With Consistency A Great Soul Has Simply

All Diseases Run Into One, Old Age.

There Is Not A Piece Of Science, But Its Flank May Be Turned Tomorrow.

I Shun Father And Mother And Wife And Brother When My Genius Calls Me. I Would Write On The Lintels Of The Door-post, Whim. I Hope That It Is Somewhat Better Than Whim At Last, But We Cannot Spend The Day In Explanation.

Every True Man Is A Cause, A Country, And An Age; Requires Infinite Spaces And Numbers And Time Fully To Accomplish His Design;--and Posterity Seem To Follow His Steps As A Train Of Clients.

For It Is Not Metres, But A Metre-making Argument That Makes A Poem.