Get Money, Still Get Money, Boy, No

True Melancholy Breeds Your Perfect Fine Wit.

The Burnt Child Dreads The Fire.

Ambition, Like A Torrent, Never Looks Back.

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.

Popular Men, They Must Create Strange Monsters, And Then Quell Them, To Make Their Arts Seem Something.