Well, Every One Can Master A Grief

Why, All Delights Are Vain; But That Most Vain, Which, With Pain Purchas'd, Doth Inherit Pain.

The Happiest Youth, Viewing His Progress Through, What Perils Past, What Crosses To Ensue, Would Shut The Book, And Sit Him Down And Die.

The Force Of His Own Merit Makes His Way-a Gift That Heaven Gives For Him.

Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till The Tree Die!

I Do Not Hate A Proud Man, As I Do Hate The Engendering Of Toads.