Fortune, That With Malicious Joydoes Man Her

The First Is The Law, The Last Prerogative.

Content With Poverty, My Soul I Arm; And Virtue, Though In Rags, Will Keep Me Warm.

At Home The Hateful Names Of Parties Cease, And Factious Souls Are Wearied Into Peace.

Better To Hunt In Fields, For Health Unbought, Than Fee The Doctor For A Nauseous Draught, The Wise, For Cure, On Exercise Depend; God Never Made His Work For Man To Mend.

Her Wit Was More Than Man, Her Innocence A Child.