If Thou Art Rich, Thou Art Poor;

I Pray You, In Your Letters, When You Shall These Unlucky Deeds Relate, Speak Of Me As I Am; Nothing Extenuate, Nor Set Down Aught In Malice. Then Must You Speak Of One That Loved Not Wisely But Too Well; Of One Not Easily Jealous, But Being Wrought, Perplexed In The Extreme. . .

'tis Better To Bear The Ills We Have Than Fly To Others That We Know Not Of.

Have More Than Thou Showest, Speak Less Than Thou Knowest, Lend Less Than Thou Owest.

We Are Oft To Blame In This, - 'tis Too Much Proved, - That With Devotion's Visage, And Pios Action We Do Sugar O'er The Devil Himself.

The Sands Are Number'd That Make Up My Life; Here Must I Stay, And Here My Life Must End.