Hee That Blowes In The Dust Fills

Make Hast To An Ill Way That You May Get Out Of It.

All The Armes Of England Will Not Arme Feare.

I Envy No Man's Nightingale Or Spring; Nor Let Them Punish Me With Loss Of Rhyme, Who Plainly Say, My God, My King.

Good Is God, But Better Carries It.

Danger It Selfe The Best Remedy For Danger.