To A Great Night, A

The Physitian Owes All To The Patient, But The Patient Owes Nothing To Him But A Little Mony.

Let Thy Mind Still Be Bent, Still Plotting, Where, And When, And How Thy Business May Be Done. Slackness Breeds Worms; But The Sure Traveller, Though He Alights Sometimes Still Goeth On.

Words And Feathers The Wind Carries Away.

Who Shuts His Hand Has Lost His Gold, Who Opens It Hath It Twice Told.

God Heales, And The Physitian Hath The Thankes.