From The Disease Of One The Whole

Many Have An Irresistible Itch For Writing.

It Is A Wretched Thing To Rest Upon The Fame Of Others, Lest, The Supporting Pillar Being Removed, The Superstructure Should Collapse In Ruin.

There's A Lust In Man, No Charm Can Tame, Of Loudly Publishing Our Neighbor's Shame.

No Other Protection Is Wanting, Provided You Are Under The Guidance Of Prudence.

The Traveller With Empty Pockets Will Sing In The Thief 's Face.