There Is No Greater Hell

The Day For Whose Returns, And Many, All These Pray; And So Do I.

Guilt's A Terrible Thing.

Where Dost Thou Careless Lie, Buried In Ease And Sloth? Knowledge That Sleeps, Doth Die; And This Security, It Is The Common Moth, That Eats On Wits And Arts, And Oft Destroys Them Both.

Folly Often Goes Beyond Her Bounds, But Impudence Knows None.

Poor Worms, They Hiss At Me, Whilst I At Home Can Be Contented To Applaud Myself, . . . With Joy To See How Plump My Bags Are And My Barns.