Ill Comes In By Ells, And Goes

When All Sinnes Grow Old, Coveteousnesse Is Young.

He That Passeth A Winters Day Escapes An Enemy.

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

He That Lies With The Dogs, Riseth With Fleas.

Who Says That Fictions Only And False Hair Become A Verse? Is There In Truth No Beauty? Is All Good Structure In A Winding Stair?