A Little Labour, Much Health.

A Good Heart Cannot Lye

Shall I, To Please Another Wine-sprung Minde, Lose All Mine Own? God Hath Giv'n Me A Measure Short Of His Can And Body; Must I Find A Pain In That, Wherein He Finds A Pleasure?

The Wind In Ones Face Makes One Wise.

They Talke Of Christmas So Long, That It Comes.

Though The Mastiffe Be Gentile, Yet Bite Him Not By The Lippe.