Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.

Be wise with speed; a fool at forty is a fool indeed.

Affliction is a good man's shining time.

To know the world, not love her, is thy point; She gives but little, nor that little, long.

He sins against this life, who slights the next.

Too low they build who build below the skies.