Books should to one of these fours ends conduce, for wisdom, piety, delight, or use.
But whither am I strayed? I need not raise Trophies to thee from other men's dispraise; Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built; Nor needs thy juster title the foul guilt Of Eastern kings, who, to secure their reign, Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred slain.
You prove but too clearly that seeking to know Is too frequently learning to doubt.
We are never like angels till our passion dies.
When any great design thou dost intend, Think on the means, the manner, and the end.
Who fears not to do ill fears the name, And free from conscience, is a slave to fame.