Knaves Starve Not In The Land Of

With That Malignant Envy Which Turns Pale, And Sickens, Even If A Friend Prevail.

Patience Is Sorrow's Salve.

The Surest Way To Health, Say What They Will, Is Never To Suppose We Shall Be Ill; Most Of The Ills Which We Poor Mortals Know From Doctors And Imagination Flow.

The Oak, When Living, Monarch Of The Wood; The English Oak, Which, Dead, Commands The Flood.

Weak Is That Throne, And In Itself Unsound, Which Takes Not Solid Virtue For Its Ground.