The People's Voice Is Odd,

Taste, That Eternal Wanderer, Which Flies From Head To Ears, And Now From Ears To Eyes.

The Mouse That Always Trusts To One Poor Hole Can Never Be A Mouse Of Any Soul.

'tis Not Enough Your Counsel Still Be True; Blunt Truths More Mischief Than Nice Falsehoods Do.

Heaven Forming Each On Other To Depend, A Master, Or A Servant, Or A Friend, Bids Each On Other For Assistance Call, Till One Man's Weakness Grows The Strength Of All.

The Worst Of Madmen Is A Saint Run Mad.