The Day For Whose Returns,

Tis The Common Disease Of All Your Musicians That They Know No Mean, To Be Entreated, Either To Begin Or End.

True Gladness Doth Not Always Speak; Joy, Bred And Born But In The Tongue, Is Weak.

Opinion Is A Light, Vain, Crude, And Imperfect Thing.

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.

Nothing Is A Courtesy Unless It Be Meant Us, And That Friendly And Lovingly. We Owe No Thanks To Rivers That They Carry Our Boats, Or Winds That They Be Favoring And Fill Our Sails, Or Meats That They Be Nourishing; For These Are What They Are Necessarily. Horses Carry Us, Trees Shade Us; But They Know It Not.