To A Fair Day Open The Window,

He Cannot Be Vertuous That Is Not Rigorous.

Corn Is Cleaned With Wind, And The Soul With Chastening

Shall I, To Please Another Wine-sprung Minde, Lose All Mine Own? God Hath Giv'n Me A Measure Short Of His Can And Body; Must I Find A Pain In That, Wherein He Finds A Pleasure?

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

If You Loose Your Time, You Cannot Get Mony Nor Gaine.