What Fools Are We, To

How Apt Nature Is, Even In Those Who Profess An Eminence In Holiness, To Raise And Maintain Animosities Against Those Whose Calling Or Person They Pretend To Find Cause To Dislike!

What Fools Are We, To Be Besotted With The Love Of Our Own Trouble, And To Hate Our Liberty And Rest!

As The Most Generous Vine, If It Is Not Pruned, Runs Out Into Many Superfluous Stems, And Grows At Last Weak And Fruitless; So Dote The Best Man, If He Be Not Cut Short Of His Desires And Pruned With Afflictions. If It Be Painful To Bleed, It Is Worse To Wither. Let Me Be Pruned, That I May Grow, Rather Than Be Cut Up To Burn.

The Blood That Is Once Inflamed With Wine Is Apt To Boil With Rage.

We Are Often Infinitely Mistaken, And Take The Falsest Measures, When We Envy The Happiness Of Rich And Great Men; We Know Not The Inward Canker That Eats Out All Their Joy And Delight, And Makes Them Really Much More Miserable Than Ourselves.