Nothing Doth So Fool A Man As

For Whom He Means To Make An Often Guest, One Dish Shall Serve; And Welcome Make The Rest.

I Will Rather Suffer A Thousand Wrongs Than Offer One. I Have Always Found That To Strive With A Superior Is Injurious; With An Equal, Doubtful; With An Inferior, Sordid And Base; With Any, Full Of Unquietness.

Ambition Is Torment Enough For An Enemy; For It Affords As Much Discontentment In Enjoying As In Want, Making Men Like Poisoned Rats, Which, When They Have Tasted Of Their Bane, Cannot Rest Till They Drink, And Then Can Much Less Rest Till They Die

The Malcontent Is Neither Well, Full Nor Fasting; And Though He Abounds With Complaints, Yet Nothing Dislikes Him But The Present; For What He Condemns While It Was, Once Passed, He Magnifies And Strives To Recall It Out Of The Jaw Of Time. What He Hath He Seeth Not, His Eyes Are So Taken Up With What He Wants; And What He Sees He Careth Not For, Because Be Cares So Much For That Which Is Not.

Sorrows, Because They Are Lingering Guests, I Will Entertain But Moderately, Knowing That The More They Are Made Of The Longer They Will Continue: And For Pleasures, Because They Stay Not, And Do But Call To Drink At My Door, I Will Use Them As Passengers With Slight Respect. He Is His Own Best Friend That Makes The Least Of Both Of Them.