Well, As He Brews, So Shall He

A New Disease? I Know Not, New Or Old, But It May Well Be Called Poor Mortals Plague For, Like A Pestilence, It Doth Infect The Houses Of The Brain Till Not A Thought, Or Motion, In The Mind, Be Free From The Black Poison Of Suspect.

I Perceive Affection Makes A Fool Of Any Man Too Much The Father.

That I Might Live Alone Once With My Gold! O, 'tis A Sweet Companion! Kind And True: A Man May Trust It When His Father Cheats Him, Brother, Or Friend, Or Wife. O Wondrous Pelf! That Which Makes All Men False, Is True Itself.

Weigh The Meaning And Look Not At The Words.

Heaven Prepares Good Men With Crosses; But No Ill Can Happen To A Good Man.