Heaven Prepares Good Men With Crosses; But

Wine It Is The Milk Of Venus, And The Poet's Horse Accounted: Ply It And You All Are Mounted.

Nor For My Peace Will I Go Far, As Wanderers Do, That Still Do Roam, But Make My Strengths, Such As They Are, Here In My Bosom, And At Home.

Let Those That Merely Talk And Never Think, That Live In The Wild Anarchy Of Drink

The Soul Of Man Is Infinite In What It Covets.

Rich Apparel Has Strange Virtues; It Makes Him That Hath It Without Means Esteemed For An Excellent Wit; He That Enjoys It With Means Puts The World In Remembrance Of His Means.