The Wind In A Man's Face Makes

A Multitude Of Words Doth Rather Obscure Than Illustrate, They Being A Burden To The Memory, And The First Apt To Be Forgotten, Before We Come To The Last. So That He That Uses Many Words For The Explaining Of Any Subject, Doth, Like The Cuttle-fish, Hide Himself, For The Most Part, In His Own Ink.

Little Children, Little Sorrows; Big Children, Big Sorrows.

When Friends Meet, Hearts Warm.

A Wonder Then It Must Needs Be,-that There Should Be Any Man Found So Stupid And Forsaken Of Reason As To Persuade Himself, That This Most Beautiful And Adorned World Was Or Could Be Produced By The Fortuitous Concourse Of Atoms.

Let Him Make Use Of Instinct Who Cannot Make Use Of Reason.