To Live Peaceably With All Breedes Good

Let Thy Mind Still Be Bent, Still Plotting, Where, And When, And How Thy Business May Be Done. Slackness Breeds Worms; But The Sure Traveller, Though He Alights Sometimes Still Goeth On.

No Barber Shaves So Close But Another Finds Worke.

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.

Words Are Women, Deeds Are Men.

That Which Will Not Be Spun, Let It Not Come Betweene The Spindle And The Distaffe.