My Soul, Sit Thou A Patient Looker-on;

The Way To Subject All Things To Thyself Is To Subject Thyself To Reason; Thou Shalt Govern Many, If Reason Govern Thee. Wouldst Thou Be Crowned The Monarch Of A Little World? Command Thyself.

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.

Neutrality Is Dangerous, Whereby Thou Becomest A Necessary Prey To The Conqueror.

Sweet Tastes Have Sour Closes; And He Repents On Thorns That Sleeps In Beds Of Roses.

If Thou Be Rich, Strive To Command Thy Money, Lest It Command Thee.