Unhappy That I Am, I Cannot Heave

The Love Of Wicked Men Converts To Fear; That Fear To Hate, And Hate Turns One Or Both To Worthy Danger And Deserved Death.

I See A Woman May Be Made A Fool, If She Had Not A Spirit To Resist.

Better Be With The Dead, Whom We To Gain Our Peace, Have Sent To Peace, Than On The Torture Of The Mind To Lie In Restless Ecstasy.

I'll Not Meddle With It; It Is A Dangerous Thing; It Makes A Man A Coward; A Man Cannot Steal, But It Accuseth Him; A Man Cannot Swear, But It Checks Him; A Man Cannot Lie With His Neighbor's Wife, But It Detects Him. 'tis A Blushing, Shame -faced Spirit, That Mutinies In A Man's Bosom ; It Fills One Full Of Obstacles; It Made Me Once Restore A Purse Of Gold That By Chance I Found; It Beggars Any Man That Keeps It; It Is Turned Out Of All Towns And Cities For A Dangerous Thing; And Every Man That Means To Live Well Endeavors To Trust To Himself And Live Without It.

They Say, The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention, Like Deep Harmony; Where Words Are Scarce, They're Seldom Spent In Vain; For They Breathe Truth, That Breathe Their Words In Pain.