Other Vices Make Their Own Way; This

Whosoever Obeyeth The Devil, Casteth Himself Down: For The Devil May Suggest, Compel He Cannot.

Even As The Needle That Directs The Hour, (touched With The Loadstone) By The Secret Power Of Hidden Nature, Points Upon The Pole; Even So The Wavering Powers Of My Soul, Touch'd By The Virtue Of Thy Spirit, Flee From What Is Earth, And Point Alone To Thee.

Wrinkle Not Thy Face With Too Much Laughter, Lest Thou Become Ridiculous; Neither Wanton Thy Heart With Too Much Mirth, Lest Thou Become Vain: The Suburbs Of Folly Is Vain Mirth, And Profuseness Of Laughter Is The City Of Fools.

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.

Socrates Called Beauty A Short-lived Tyranny; Plato, A Privilege Of Nature; Theophrastus, A Silent Cheat; Theocritus, A Delightful Prejudice; Carneades, A Solitary Kingdom; Aristotle, That It Was Better Than All The Letters Of Recommendation In The World; Homer, That It Was A Glorious Gift Of Nature; And Ovid, That It Was Favor Bestowed By The Gods.