Who, As They Sung, Would

In The Sweat Of Thy Face Thou Shalt Eat Bread, Till Thou Return Unto The Ground; For Thou Out Of The Ground Wast Taken; Know Thy Birth, For Dust Thou Art, And Shalt To Dust Return.

A Man May Be Ungrateful, But The Human Race Is Not So.

Accuse Not Nature: She Hath Done Her Part; Do Thou But Thine.

Nothing Profits More Than Self-esteem, Grounded On What Is Just And Right.

That Virtue Therefore Which Is But A Youngling In The Contemplation Of Evil, And Knows Not The Utmost That Vice Promises To Her Followers, And Rejects It, Is But A Blank Virtue, Not A Pure; Her Whiteness Is But An Excremental Whiteness.