The Work Under Our Labour Grows, Luxurious

If All The World Should In A Pet Of Temp'rance, Feed On Pulse, Drink The Clear Stream, And Nothing Wear But Frieze, Th' All-giver Would Be Unthank'd, Would Be Unprais'd.

He Who Would Not Be Frustrate Of His Hope To Write Well Hereafter In Laudable Things Ought Himself To Be A True Poem.

Be Lowly Wise: Think Only What Concerns Thee And Thy Being.

So Satan, Whom Repulse Upon Repulse Met Ever, And To Shameful Silence Brought, Yet Gives Not O'er Though Desperate Of Success.

Money Brings Honor, Friends, Conquest, And Realms.