To Men Pressed By Their Wants All

Fortune, Thou Hadst No Deity, If Men Had Wisdom.

Reader Look, Not On His Picture But His Book.

And Where She Went, The Flowers Took Thickest Root, As She Had Sow'd Them With Her Odorous Foot.

Custom Is The Most Certain Mistress Of Language, As The Public Stamp Makes The Current Money.

Truth Is Man's Proper Good, And The Only Immortal Thing Was Given To Our Mortality To Use.