To The Counsell Of Fooles A Woodden

Hee That Bewailes Himselfe Hath The Cure In His Hands.

Who Spits Against Heaven, It Falls In His Face.

Who Sweeps A Room, As For Thy Laws, Makes That And The Action Fine.

Old Men Go To Death, Death Comes To Young Men.

Listen, Sweet Dove, Unto My Song, And Spread Thy Golden Wings In Me; Hatching My Tender Heart So Long, Till It Get Wing, And Flie Away With Thee.