Wit Is The Fruitful Womb Where Thoughts

And Of All Plagues With Which Mankind Are Curst, Ecclesiastic Tyranny's The Worst.

He That Is Rich Is Wise.

A Woman Well Bred And Well Taught, Furnished With The Additional Accomplishments Of Knowledge And Behaviour, Is A Creature Without Comparison. Her Society Is The Emblem Of Sublimer Enjoyments, Her Person Is Angelic, And Her Conversation Heavenly. She Is All Softness And Sweetness, Peace, Love, Wit, And Delight. She Is Every Way Suitable To The Sublimest Wish, And The Man That Has Such A One To His Portion, Has Nothing To Do But To Rejoice In Her, And Be Thankful.

As For Women That Do Not Think Their Own Safety Worth Their Thought, That Impatient Of Their Present State, Resolve As They Call It To Take The First Good Christian That Comes; That Runs Into Matrimony, As A Horse Rushes Into Battle; I Can Say Nothing To Them, But This, That They Are A Sort Of Ladies That Are To Be Pray'd For Among The Rest Of Distemper'd People; And To Me They Look Like People That Venture Their Whole Estates In A Lottery Where There Is A Hundred Thousand Blanks To One Prize.

Wit, Like The Belly, If It Be Not Fed, Will Starve The Members, And Distract The Head.