The Soule Needs Few Things, The Body

If The Braine Sowes Not Corne, It Plants Thistles.

Nothing Is To Be Presumed On, Or Despaired Of.

The Corne Hides It Self In The Snow, As An Old Man In Furrs.

A Sleepy Master Makes His Servant A Lowt.

The Yeare Doth Nothing Else But Open And Shut.