Jealousy Is The Jaundice Of The Soul.

Not Judging Truth To Be In Nature Better Than Falsehood, But Setting A Value Upon Both According To Interest.

None Would Live Past Years Again, Yet All Hope Pleasure In What Yet Remain; And, From The Dregs Of Life, Think To Receive, What The First Sprightly Running Could Not Give.

Ev'n Wit's A Burthen, When It Talks Too Long.

Good Heaven, Whose Darling Attribute We Find Is Boundless Grace, And Mercy To Mankind, Abhors The Cruel.

But 'tis The Talent Of Our English Nation, Still To Be Plotting Some New Reformation.