I See No Virtue Where I Smell

Alas! Fond Child, How Are Thy Thoughts Beguil'd To Hope For Honey From A Nest Of Wasps? Thou May'st As Well Go Seek For Ease In Hell, Or Sprightly Nectar From The Mouths Of Asps. The World's A Hive, From Whence Thou Canst Derive No Good, But What Thy Soul's Vexation Brings: But Case Thou Meet Some Petty-petty Sweet, Each Drop Is Guarded With A Thousand Stings.

The Worldly Wisdom Of The Foolish Man Is Like A Sieve, That Does Alone Retain The Grosser Substance Of The Worthless Bran: But Thou, My Soul, Let Thy Brave Thoughts Disdain So Coarse A Purchase: O Be Thou A Fan To Purge The Chaff, And Keep The Winnow'd Grain: Make Clean Thy Thoughts, And Dress Thy Mixt Desires: Thou Art Heav'n's Tasker, And Thy God Requires The Purest Of Thy Flow'r, As Well As Of Thy Fires.

Beware Of Him That Is Slow To Anger; For When It Is Long Coming, It Is The Stronger When It Comes, And The Longer Kept. Abused Patience Turns To Fury.

If Thou Wouldst Preserve A Sound Body, Use Fasting And Walking; If A Healthful Soul, Fasting And Praying. Walking Exercises The Body; Praying Exercises The Soul; Fasting Cleanses Both.

He That Hath No Cross Deserves No Crown.