Is It Not A Noble Farce, Wherein

Malice Sucks Up The Greatest Part Of Its Own Venom, And Poisons Itself.

There Are Some Defeats More Triumphant Than Victories.

There Are No Truths, Only Moments Of Claryty Passing For Answers.

There Is No Virtue Which Does Not Rejoice A Well-descended Nature; There Is A Kind Of I Know Not What Congratulation In Well-doing, That Gives Us An Inward Satisfaction, And A Certain Generous Boldness That Accompanies A Good Conscience.

It Is The Part Of Cowardliness, And Not Of Virtue, To Seek To Squat Itself In Some Hollow Lurking Hole, Or To Hide Herself Under Some Massive Tomb, Thereby To Shun The Strokes Of Fortune.