I Perceive Affection Makes A Fool Of

Well, As He Brews, So Shall He Drink.

I Feel My Griefs Too, And There Scarce Is Ground Upon My Flesh T'inflict Another Wound. Yet Dare I Not Complain, Or Wish For Death With Holy Paul; Lest It Be Thought The Breath Of Discontent; Or That These Prayers Be For Weariness Of Life, Not Love Of Thee.

Where Dost Thou Careless Lie, Buried In Ease And Sloth? Knowledge That Sleeps, Doth Die; And This Security, It Is The Common Moth, That Eats On Wits And Arts, And Oft Destroys Them Both.

Hell Itself Must Yield To Industry.

O! How Vain And Vile A Passion Is This Fear! What Base Uncomely Things It Makes Men Do.