Here Lies A Proof That Wit Can

Sure, I Rose The Wrong Way Today, I Have Had Such Damn'd Ill Luck Every Way.

Love Ceases To Be A Pleasure, When It Ceases To Be A Secret.

Affectation Hath Always Had A Greater Share Both In The Action And Discourse Of Men Than Truth And Judgment Have.

A Poet Is A Painter In His Way, He Draws To The Life, But In Another Kind; We Draw The Nobler Part, The Soul And The Mind; The Pictures Of The Pen Shall Outlast Those Of The Pencil, And Even Worlds Themselves.

Nothing Is More Capable Of Troubling Our Reason, And Consuming Our Health, Than Secret Notions Of Jealousy In Solitude.