He That Departs With His Own Honesty

O, For An Engine, To Keep Back All Clocks, Or Make The Sun Forget His Motion!

Ambition Makes More Trusty Slaves Than Need

Tell Troth And Shame The Devil.

If You Succeed Not, Cast Not Away The Quills Yet, Nor Scratch The Wainscot, Beat Not The Poor Desk, But Bring All To The Forge And File Again; Turn It New.

A New Disease? I Know Not, New Or Old, But It May Well Be Called Poor Mortals Plague For, Like A Pestilence, It Doth Infect The Houses Of The Brain Till Not A Thought, Or Motion, In The Mind, Be Free From The Black Poison Of Suspect.