Hee That Bewailes Himselfe Hath The Cure

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?

The Comforters Head Never Akes.

Sleepe Without Supping, And Wake Without Owing.

Hee That Stumbles And Falles Not, Mends His Pace.

Where The Drink Goes In, There The Wit Goes Out.