Secret guilt is by silence revealed.

There is a proud modesty in merit.

That gloomy outside, like a rusty chest, contains the shoring treasure of a soul resolved and brave.

Ill habits gather unseen degrees, as brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.

As one that neither seeks, nor shuns his foe.

All objects lose by too familiar a view.

Truth is never to be expected from authors whose understanding is warped with enthusiasm.