Every One Thinkes His Sacke Heaviest.

A Gentle Heart Is Tied With An Easy Thread.

That Flesh Is But The Glasse, Which Holds The Dust That Measures All Our Time; Which Also Shall Be Crumbled Into Dust.

We Must Love, As Looking One Day To Hate.

The Filth Under The White Snow, The Sunne Discovers.

I Know The Ways Of Pleasure, The Sweet Strains, The Lullings And The Relishes Of It.