The Fault Of The Horse Is Put

No Sooner Is A Temple Built To God But The Devill Builds A Chappell Hard By.

Every Man's Censure Is First Moulded In His Own Nature.

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?

There Come Nought Out Of The Sacke But What Was There.

A Bad Workman Quarrels With His Tools.