And Plenty Makes Us Poor.

Ill Fortune Seldom Comes Alone.

But When To Sin Our Biased Nature Leans, The Careful Devil Is Still At Hand With Means; And Providently Pimps For Ill Desires.

If One Must Be Rejected, One Succeed, Make Him My Lord Within Whose Faithful Breast Is Fixed My Image, And Who Loves Me Best.

The Soft Complaining Flute, In Dying Notes, Discovers The Woes Of Hopeless Lovers.

Humility And Resignation Are Our Prime Virtues.