It Is Difficult Not To Write Satire.

Nature Confesses That She Has Bestowed On The Human Race Hearts Of Softest Mould, In That She Has Given Us Tears.

The Smell Of Money Is Good, Come Whence It May. [alluding To Vespasian's Tax On Ordure.]

Refrain From Doing Ill; For One All Powerful Reason, Lest Our Children Should Copy Our Misdeeds; We Are All Too Prone To Imitate Whatever Is Base And Depraved.

Many Suffer From The Incurable Disease Of Writing, And It Becomes Chronic In Their Sick Minds.

Such Men As Fortune Raises From A Mean Estate To The Highest Elevation By Way Of A Joke.