If Folly Were Griefe Every House Would

Hee That Wipes The Childs Nose, Kisseth The Mothers Cheeke.

Say No Ill Of The Yeere, Till It Be Past. [say No Ill Of The Year Till It Be Past.]

I Was Taken By A Morsell, Saies The Fish. [i Was Taken By A Morsel, Says The Fish.]

By The Needle You Shall Draw The Thread, And By That Which Is Past, See How That Which Is To Come Will Be Drawne On.

He That Mockes A Cripple, Ought To Be Whole.