The Grave Is Sooner Cloy'd Than Men's

The World Is Deceitful; Her End Is Doubtful, Her Conclusion Is Horrible, Her Judge Terrible, And Her Judgment Is Intolerable.

The Worldly Wisdom Of The Foolish Man Is Like A Sieve, That Does Alone Retain The Grosser Substance Of The Worthless Bran: But Thou, My Soul, Let Thy Brave Thoughts Disdain So Coarse A Purchase: O Be Thou A Fan To Purge The Chaff, And Keep The Winnow'd Grain: Make Clean Thy Thoughts, And Dress Thy Mixt Desires: Thou Art Heav'n's Tasker, And Thy God Requires The Purest Of Thy Flow'r, As Well As Of Thy Fires.

With A Bloody Flux Of Oaths Vows Deep Revenge.

If Opinion Hath Lighted The Lamp Of Thy Name, Endeavor To Encourage It With Thy Own Oil, Lest It Go Out And Stink; The Chronical Disease Of Popularity Is Shame; If Thou Be Once Up, Beware; From Fame To Infamy Is A Beaten Road.

In Thy Apparel Avoid Singularity, Profuseness, And Gaudiness. Be Not Too Early In The Fashion, Nor Too Late. Decency Is Half Way Between Affectation And Neglect. The Body Is The Shell Of The Soul, Apparel Is The Husk Of That Shell; The Husk Often Tells You What The Kernel Is.