Glory Grows Guilty Of Detested Crimes.

I Have Shot Mine Arrow O'er The House And Hurt My Brother.

The Foole Doth Thinke He Is Wise, But The Wiseman Knowes Himselfe To Be A Foole.

Trust Not My Reading, Nor My Observations, Which With Experimental Seal Do Warrant The Tenor Of My Book.

But Whate'er I Am, Nor I Nor Any Man That But Man Is, With Nothing Shall Be Pleased 'til He Be Eased With Being Nothing.

May Never Glorious Sun Reflex His Beams Upon The Country Where You Make Abode! But Darkness And The Gloomy Shade Of Death Environ You Till Mischief And Despair Drive You To Break Your Necks Or Hang Yourselves.