The Body Is More Drest Then The

Words Are Women, Deeds Are Men.

It's An Ill Councell That Hath No Escape.

Hee That Gives Thee A Bone, Would Not Have Thee Die.

Only The Wearer Knows Where The Shoe Pinches.

Sweet Rose, Whose Hue, Angry And Brave, Bids The Rash Gazer Wipe His Eye, Thy Root Is Even In The Grave, And Thou Must Die.