I Would With Such Perfection Govern, Sir,

The Dullness Of The Fool Is The Whetstone Of The Wits.

No Profit Grows Where No Pleasure Is Taken.

All Gold And Silver Rather Turn To Dirt, An 'tis No Better Reckoned But Of These Who Worship Dirty Gods.

Shall We Upon The Footing Of Our Land Send Fair-play Orders, And Make Compromise, Insinuation, Parley, And Base Truce, To Arms Invasive?

Our Very Eyes Are Sometimes, Like Our Judgments, Blind.