True Melancholy Breeds Your Perfect Fine Wit.

Hell Itself Must Yield To Industry.

Neither Do Thou Lust After That Tawny Weed Tobacco.

Poor Worms, They Hiss At Me, Whilst I At Home Can Be Contented To Applaud Myself, . . . With Joy To See How Plump My Bags Are And My Barns.

Let Argument Bear No Unmusical Sound.

Many Punishments Sometimes, And In Some Cases, As Much Discredit A Prince As Many Funerals A Physician.