Tears Are The Noble Language

I'll Write, Because I'll Give - You Critics Means To Live; For Should I Not Supply - The Cause, The Effect Would Die

Let's Live With That Small Pittance Which We Have; Who Covets More Is Evermore A Slave.

Seldom Comes Glory Till A Man Be Dead.

Temptations Hurt Not, Though They Have Accesse; Satan O'ercomes None But By Willingnesse.

Well I Sup And Well I Dine, When I Drink My Frolic Wine.