Memory, The Warder Of The Brain.

Tis Mad Idolatry To Make The Service Greater Than The God.

Crowns In My Purse I Have, And Goods At Home, And So Am Come Abroad To See The World.

Tis Gold Which Buys Admittance--oft It Doth--yea, And Makes Diana's Rangers False Themselves, Yield Up This Deer To Th' Stand O' Th' Stealer: And 'tis Gold Which Makes The True Man Kill'd And Saves The Thief, Nay, Sometimes Hangs Both Thief And True Man.

The Eagle Suffers Little Birds To Sing, And Is Not Careful What They Mean Thereby, Knowing That With The Shadow Of His Wings He Can At Pleasure Stint Their Melody: Even So Mayest Thou The Giddy Men Of Rome.

A Rarer Spirit Never Did Steer Humanity; But You Gods Will Give Us Some Faults To Make Us Men.