And Plenty Makes Us Poor.

For Those Whom God To Ruin Has Design'd, He Fits For Fate, And First Destroys Their Mind.

Interest Makes All Seem Reason That Leads To It.

Beauty, Like Ice, Our Footing Does Betray; Who Can Tread Sure On The Smooth, Slippery Way: Pleased With The Surface, We Glide Swiftly On, And See The Dangers That We Cannot Shun.

An Ugly Woman In A Rich Habit Set Out With Jewels Nothing Can Become.

To Die For Faction Is A Common Evil, But To Be Hanged For Nonsense Is The Devil.