Wine It Is The Milk Of Venus,

That Praises Are Without Reason Lavished On The Dead, And That The Honours Due Only To Are Paid To Antiquity, Is A Complaint Likely To Be Always Continued By Those Who, Being Able To Add Nothing To Truth, Hope For Eminence From The Heresies Of Paradox; Or Those Who, Being Forced By Disappointment Upon Consolatory Expedients, Are Willing To Hope From Posterity What The Present Age Refuses, And Flatter Themselves That The Regard Which Is Yet Denied By Envy Will Be At Last Bestowed By Time.

Spread Yourself Upon His Bosom Publicly, Whose Heart You Would Eat In Private.

A Good Life Is A Main Argument.

Get Money, Still Get Money, Boy, No Matter By What Means.

How Fortune Piles Her Sports When She Begins To Practise Them!