Go miser go, for money sell your soul. Trade wares for wares and trudge from pole to pole, So others may say when you are dead and gone. See what a vast estate he left his son.

Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.

For those whom God to ruin has design'd, He fits for fate, and first destroys their mind.

Great wits are sure to madness near allied, and thin partitions do their bounds divide.

But dying is a pleasure / When living is a pain.

All flowers will droop in the absence of the sun that waked their sweets.

Such subtle Covenants shall be made,Till Peace it self is War in Masquerade.