Let Grace Conduct Thee To The Paths

No Man's Condition Is So Base As His; None More Accurs'd Than He; For Man Esteems Him Hateful, 'cause He Seems Not What He Is; God Hates Him, 'cause He Is Not What He Seems; What Grief Is Absent, Or What Mischief Can Be Added To The Hate Of God And Man?

Of All The Difficulties In A State, The Temper Of A True Government Most Felicifies And Perpetuates It; Too Sudden Alterations Distemper It. Had Nero Tuned His Kingdom As He Did His Harp, His Harmony Had Been More Honorable, And His Reign More Prosperous.

What Well-advised Ear Regards What Earth Can Say? Thy Words Are Gold, But Thy Rewards Are Painted Clay.

For Trash And Toys, And Grief-engend'ring Joys, What Torment Seems Too Sharp For Flesh And Blood; What Bitter Pills, Compos'd Of Real Ills, Men Swallow Down To Purchase One False Good!

What Money Creates, Money Preserves: If Thy Wealth Decays, Thy Honor Dies; It Is But A Slippery Happiness Which Fortunes Can Give, And Frowns Can Take; And Not Worth The Owning Which A Night's Fire Can Melt, Or A Rough Sea Can Drown.