The Burnt Child Dreads The

True Melancholy Breeds Your Perfect Fine Wit.

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.

Men That Talk Of Their Own Benefits Are Not Believed To Talk Of Them Because They Have Done Them, But To Have Done Them Because They Might Talk Of Them.

A Thankful Man Owes A Courtesy Ever; The Unthankful But When He Needs It.

A Valiant Man Ought Not To Undergo, Or Tempt A Danger, But Worthily, And By Selected Ways, He Undertakes With Reason, Not By Chance. His Valor Is The Salt T' His Other Virtues, They're All Unseason'd Without It.