Who Paies The Physitian, Does The Cure.

A Morning Sunne, And A Wine-bred Child, And A Latin-bred Woman, Seldome End Well.

He That Is Surprized With The First Frost Feeles It All The Winter After.

Hee Is Not Free That Drawes His Chaine.

He That Feares Death Lives Not.

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.