O! How Vain And Vile A Passion

It Holds For Good Polity Ever, To Have That Outwardly In Vilest Estimation, Which Inwardly Is Most Dear To Us.

A Prince Without Letters Is A Pilot Without Eyes. All His Government Is Groping.

Out Of Clothes Out Of Countenance, Out Of Countenance Out Of Wit.

Nor For My Peace Will I Go Far, As Wanderers Do, That Still Do Roam, But Make My Strengths, Such As They Are, Here In My Bosom, And At Home.

A Good Man Should And Must Sit Rather Down With Loss Than Rise Unjust.