Tis The Times' Plague, When Madmen Lead

So May The Outward Shows Be Least Themselves; The World Is Still Deceived With Ornament.

Allow Not Nature More Than Nature Needs.

Trust Not My Reading, Nor My Observations, Which With Experimental Seal Do Warrant The Tenor Of My Book.

Time Is Like A Fashionable Host That Slightly Shakes His Parting Guest By The Hand, And With His Arm Outstretch'd, As He Would Fly, Grasps In The Comer.

I Love Him For His Sake; And Yet I Know Him A Notorious Liar, Think Him A Great Way Fool, Solely A Coward; Yet These Fix'd Evils Sit So Fit In Him That They Take Place When Virtue's Steely Bones Looks Bleak I' Th' Cold Wind; Withal, Full Oft We See Cold Wisdom Waiting On Superfluous Folly.