A Wicked Mans Gift Hath A Touch

Let All Live As They Would Die.

Ah My Deare God! Though I Am Clean Forgot, Let Me Not Love Thee, If I Love Thee Not.

Weening Is Not Measure.

He That Lives Not Well One Yeare, Sorrowes Seven After. [he That Lives Not Well One Year Sorrows Seven Years After.]

He That Makes His Bed Ill, Lies There.