God Complaines Not, But Doth What Is

The Thought Hath Good Leggs, And The Quill A Good Tongue.

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?

It's No Sure Rule To Fish With A Cros-bow.

If Any Speak Ill Of Thee, Fly Home To Thy Own Conscience And Examine Thy Heart. If Thou Art Guilty, It Is A Just Correction; If Not Guilty, It Is A Fair Instruction.

Every Mile Is Two In Winter