The World Knows Only Two, That's Rome

The Burnt Child Dreads The Fire.

Who Will Not Judge Him Worthy To Be Robbed That Sets His Doors Wide Open To A Thief, And Shows The Felon Where His Treasure Lies?

There Is No Doctrine Will Do Good Where Nature Is Wanting.

A New Disease? I Know Not, New Or Old, But It May Well Be Called Poor Mortals Plague For, Like A Pestilence, It Doth Infect The Houses Of The Brain Till Not A Thought, Or Motion, In The Mind, Be Free From The Black Poison Of Suspect.

Let Those That Merely Talk And Never Think, That Live In The Wild Anarchy Of Drink