He That Lies With The Dogs, Riseth

If You Must Flie, Flie Well.

Let An Ill Man Lie In Thy Straw, And He Looks To Be Thy Heire.

Nothing Secure Unlesse Suspected.

A Caske And An Ill Custome Must Be Broken.

Money, Thou Bane Of Bliss, And Source Of Woe, Whence Cam'st Thou, That Thou Art So Fresh And Fine? I Know Thy Parentage Is Base And Low: Man Found Thee Poor And Dirty In A Mine.