Your Highest Female Grace Is Silence.

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

Good Men But See Death, The Wicked Taste It.

No Simple Word That Shall Be Uttered At Our Mirthful Board, Shall Make Us Sad Next Morning; Or Affright The Liberty That We'll Enjoy To-night.

Many Might Go To Heaven With Half The Labour They Go To Hell, If They Would Venture Their Industry The Right Way.

Nor For My Peace Will I Go Far, As Wanderers Do, That Still Do Roam, But Make My Strengths, Such As They Are, Here In My Bosom, And At Home.