Charity Is A Naked Child, Giving Honey

If Thy Daughter Marry Well, Thou Hast Found A Son; If Not, Thou Hast Lost A Daughter.

What Money Creates, Money Preserves: If Thy Wealth Decays, Thy Honor Dies; It Is But A Slippery Happiness Which Fortunes Can Give, And Frowns Can Take; And Not Worth The Owning Which A Night's Fire Can Melt, Or A Rough Sea Can Drown.

It Is The Lot Of Man But Once To Die.

Afflictions Clarify The Soul; And Like Hard Masters, Give More Hard Directions, Tutoring The Non-age Of Uncurbed Affections.

Yet, Sluggard, Wake, And Gull Thy Soul No More With Earth's False Pleasures, And The World's Delight, Whose Fruit Is Fair And Pleasing To The Sight, But Sour In Taste, False As The Putrid Core: Thy Flaring Glass Is Gems At Her Half Light; She Makes Thee Seeming Rich, But Truly Poor: She Boasts A Kernel, And Bestows A Shell; Performs An Inch Of Her Fair-promis'd Ell: Her Words Protest A Heav'n; Her Works Produce A Hell.