Joy rul'd the day, and Love the night.

Griefs assured are felt before they come.

Long pains, with use of bearing, are half eased.

Virtue in distress, and vice in triumph make atheists of mankind.

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.

The province of the soul is large enough to fill up every cranny of your time, and leave you much to answer for if one wretch be damned by your neglect.

…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky