A Woman Conceales What Shee Knowes Not.

Ill Comes In By Ells, And Goes Out By Inches.

Spies Are The Ears And Eyes Of Princes.

God Strikes With His Finger, And Not With All His Arm.

I Read, And Sigh, And Wish I Were A Tree; For Sure Then I Should Grow To Fruit Or Shade: At Least Some Bird Would Trust Her Household To Me, And I Should Be Just.

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?