For Whom He Means To Make An

Ambition Is Torment Enough For An Enemy; For It Affords As Much Discontentment In Enjoying As In Want, Making Men Like Poisoned Rats, Which, When They Have Tasted Of Their Bane, Cannot Rest Till They Drink, And Then Can Much Less Rest Till They Die

Garments That Have Once One Rent In Them Are Subject To Be Torn On Every Nail, And Glasses That Are Once Cracked Are Soon Broken; Such Is Man's Good Name Once Tainted With Just Reproach.

Perfection Is The Child Of Time.

Our Body Is A Well-set Clock, Which Keeps Good Time, But If It Be Too Much Or Indiscreetly Tampered With, The Alarm Runs Out Before The Hour.

What Fools Are We, To Be Besotted With The Love Of Our Own Trouble, And To Hate Our Liberty And Rest!