To Fear Death Is The Way To

Death's A Fable. Did Not Heaven Inspire Your Equal Elements With Living Fire Blown From The Spring Of Life? Is Not That Breath Immortal? Come; Ye Are As Free From Death As He That Made Ye: Can The Flames Expire Which He Kindled?

For Trash And Toys, And Grief-engend'ring Joys, What Torment Seems Too Sharp For Flesh And Blood; What Bitter Pills, Compos'd Of Real Ills, Men Swallow Down To Purchase One False Good!

Wickedness Is Its Own Punishment.

He That Discovers Himself, Till He Hath Made Himself Master Of His Desires, Lays Himself Open To His Own Ruin, And Makes Himself Prisoner To His Own Tongue.

Lust Is A Sharp Spur To Vice, Which Always Putteth The Affections Into A False Gallop.