The Clock Upbraids Me With The Waste

Methinks I Am A Prophet New Inspired And Thus, Expiring, Do Foretell Of Him: His Rash Fierce Blaze Of Riot Cannot Last, For Violent Fires Soon Burn Out Themselves; Small Show'rs Last Long, But Sudden Storms Are Short; He Tires Betimes That Spurs Too Fast Betimes; With Eager Feeding Doth Choke The Feeder; Light Vanity, Insatiate Cormorant, Consuming Means, Soon Preys Upon Itself.

Things Sweet To Taste Prove In Digestion Sour.

So Curses All Eve's Daughters Of What Complexion Soever.

I Scorn You, Scurvy Companion.

A Thousand Moral Paintings I Can Show That Shall Demonstrate These Quick Blows Of Fortune's More Pregnantly Than Words.