Hell Itself Must Yield To Industry.

True Happiness Consists Not In The Multitude Of Friends, But In The Worth And Choice.

Neither Do Thou Lust After That Tawny Weed Tobacco.

I Now Think, Love Is Rather Deaf, Than Blind, For Else It Could Not Be, That She, Whom I Adore So Much, Should So Slight Me, And Cast My Love Behind.

Whom The Disease Of Talking Still Once Posses-seth, He Can Never Hold His Peace.

Poor Worms, They Hiss At Me, Whilst I At Home Can Be Contented To Applaud Myself, . . . With Joy To See How Plump My Bags Are And My Barns.