Tis No Sin Love's Fruits To Steal;

The Way To Rise Is To Obey And Please.

Cut Men's Throats With Whisperings.

God Wisheth None Should Wreck On A Strange Shelf: To Him Man's Dearer Than To Himself.

In The Hope To Meet Shortly Again, And Make Our Absence Sweet.

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.