Very Few Men Are Wise By Their

Mischiefs Feed / Like Beasts, Till They Be Fat, And Then They Bleed.

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.

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

A Valiant Man Ought Not To Undergo, Or Tempt A Danger, But Worthily, And By Selected Ways, He Undertakes With Reason, Not By Chance. His Valor Is The Salt T' His Other Virtues, They're All Unseason'd Without It.

I Have Been At My Book; And Am Now Past The Craggy Paths Of Study, And Come To The Flowery Plains Of Honour And Reputation