And What's A Life? - A Weary

If Thou Expect Death As A Friend, Prepare To Entertain It; If Thou Expect Death As An Enemy, Prepare To Overcome It; Death Has No Advantage, But When It Comes A Stranger.

The World's A Printing-house, Our Words, Our Thoughts, Our Deeds, Are Characters Of Several Sizes. Each Soul Is A Compos'tor, Of Whose Faults The Levites Are Correctors; Heaven Revises. Death Is The Common Press, From Whence Being Driven, We're Gather'd, Sheet By Sheet, And Bound For Heaven.

The Light Of The Understanding, Humility Kindleth And Pride Covereth.

Demean Thyself More Warily In Thy Study Than In The Street. If Thy Public Actions Have A Hundred Witnesses, Thy Private Have A Thousand. The Multitude Looks But Upon Thy Actions; Thy Conscience Looks Into Them: The Multitude May Chance To Excuse Thee, If Not Acquit Thee; Thy Conscience Will Accuse Thee, If Not Condemn Thee.

For Trash And Toys, And Grief-engend'ring Joys, What Torment Seems Too Sharp For Flesh And Blood; What Bitter Pills, Compos'd Of Real Ills, Men Swallow Down To Purchase One False Good!