Nothing Comes From Doing Nothing.

For Precious Friends Hid In Death's Dateless Night.

Thus Did I Keep My Person Fresh And New, My Presence, Like A Robe Pontifical, Ne'er Seen But Wondered At, And So My State, Seldom But Sumptuous, Showed Like A Feast.

Violent Fires Soon Burn Out Themselves, Small Showers Last Long, But Sudden Storms Are Short; He Tires Betimes That Spurs Too Fast.

Virtue Itself Turns Vice, Being Misapplied, And Vice Sometime By Action Dignified.

I See Men's Judgments Are A Parcel Of Their Fortunes; And Things Outward Do Draw The Inward Quality After Them, To Suffer All Alike.