Go Not For Every Grief To The

Money, Thou Bane Of Bliss, And Source Of Woe, Whence Cam'st Thou, That Thou Art So Fresh And Fine? I Know Thy Parentage Is Base And Low: Man Found Thee Poor And Dirty In A Mine.

Whether Goest, Griefe? Where I Am Wont.

Bee Not Idle And You Shall Not Bee Longing.

When Thou Dost Tell Another's Jest, Therein Omit The Oaths, Which True Wit Cannot Need; Pick Out Of Tales The Mirth, But Not The Sin.

Pursue Not A Victory Too Far. He Hath Conquered Well That Hath Made His Enemy Fly; Thou Mayest Beat Him To A Desperate Resistance, Which May Ruin Thee.