Many Things Are Lost For Want Of

The Fault Of The Horse Is Put On The Saddle.

Between The Businesse Of Life And The Day Of Death, A Space Ought To Be Interposed.

We Cannot Come To Honour Under Coverlet.

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

He That Pitties Another, Remembers Himselfe.