My Hands Are Guilty, But

Griefs Assured Are Felt Before They Come.

A Good Conscience Is A Port Which Is Landlocked On Every Side, Where No Winds Can Possibly Invade. There A Man May Not Only See His Own Image, But That Of His Maker, Clearly Reflected From The Undisturbed Waters.

Go Miser Go, For Money Sell Your Soul. Trade Wares For Wares And Trudge From Pole To Pole, So Others May Say When You Are Dead And Gone. See What A Vast Estate He Left His Son.

Death Ends Our Woes, And The Kind Grave Shuts Up The Mournful Scene.

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.