What Reason Weaves, By Passion Is Undone.

Destroy All Creatures For Thy Sport Or Gust, Yet Cry, If Man's Unhappy, God's Unjust.

The Season When To Come, And When To Go, To Sing, Or Cease To Sing, We Never Know.

Modest Plainness Sets Off Sprightly Wit, For Works May Have More With Than Does 'em Good, As Bodies Perish Through Excess Of Blood.

Honor And Shame From No Condition Rise. Act Well Your Part: There All The Honor Lies.

Of Manners Gentle, Of Affections Mild; In Wit A Man; Simplicity, A Child.