We All Labour Against Our Own Cure,

Do The Devils Lie? No; For Then Even Hell Could Not Subsist.

I Envy No Man That Knows More Than Myself, But Pity Them That Know Less.

Were The Happiness Of The Next World Is As Closely Apprehended As The Felicities Of This, It Were A Martyrdom To Live.

We Censure Others But As They Disagree From That Humor Which We Fancy Laudable In Ourselves, And Commend Others But For That Wherein They Seem To Quadrate And Consent With Us.

Let Age, Not Envy, Draw Wrinkles On Thy Cheeks.