Thy Praise Or Dispraise Is To Me

Where Dost Thou Careless Lie, Buried In Ease And Sloth? Knowledge That Sleeps, Doth Die; And This Security, It Is The Common Moth, That Eats On Wits And Arts, And Oft Destroys Them Both.

Wine It Is The Milk Of Venus, And The Poet's Horse Accounted: Ply It And You All Are Mounted.

No Simple Word That Shall Be Uttered At Our Mirthful Board, Shall Make Us Sad Next Morning; Or Affright The Liberty That We'll Enjoy To-night.

Very Few Men Are Wise By Their Own Council, Or Learned By Their Own Teaching. For He That Was Only Taught By Himself, Had A Fool For A Master.

A Good Life Is A Main Argument.