A Fusty Nut With No

I Rather Would Entreat Thy Company; To See The Wonders Of The World Abroad, Than, Living Dully Sluggardized At Home, Wear Out Thy Youth With Shapeless Idleness.

Assume A Virtue, If You Have It Not. That Monster, Custom, Who All Sense Doth Eat; Of Habits Devil, Is Angel Yet In This.

Not Proud You Have, But Thankful That You Have. Proud Can I Never Be Of What I Hate, But Thankful Even For Hate That Is Meant Love.

To Persevere In Obstinate Condolement Is A Course Of Impious Stubbornness: 'tis Unmanly Grief.

The Weary Sun Hath Made A Golden Set And By The Bright Tract Of His Fiery Car Gives Token Of A Goodly Day To-morrow.