Many Small Make A Great.

Great Peace Is Found In Little Busy-ness.

Who Looks At Me, Beholdeth Sorrows All, All Pain, All Torture, Woe And All Distress; I Have No Need On Other Harms To Call, As Anguish, Languor, Cruel Bitterness, Discomfort, Dread, And Madness More And Less; Methinks From Heaven Above The Tears Must Rain In Pity For My Harsh And Cruel Pain.

To Maken Vertue Of Necessite.

Drunkenness Is The Very Sepulcher Of Man's Wit And His Discretion.

. . . If Gold Rust, What Then Will Iron Do?/ For If A Priest Be Foul In Whom We Trust/ No Wonder That A Common Man Should Rust. . . .