Our Cure, To Be No More; Sad

How Oft, In Nations Gone Corrupt, And By Their Own Devices Brought Down To Servitude, That Man Chooses Bondage Before Liberty. Bondage With Ease Before Strenuous Liberty.

New Presbyter Is But Old Priest Writ Large.

Praise From An Enemy Smells Of Craft.

The Nodding Horror Of Whose Shady Brows Threats The Forlorn And Wandering Passenger.

I Did But Prompt The Age To Quit Their Clogs By The Known Rules Of Ancient Liberty, When Straight A Barbarous Noise Environs Me Of Owls And Cuckoos, Asses, Apes And Dogs.