Beggar That I Am, I Am Even

How Many Cowards Whose Hearts Are All As False As Stairs Of Sand, Wear Yet Upon Their Chins The Beards Of Hercules And Frowning Mars, Who Inward Searched, Have Livers White As Milk!

There Is Little Choice In A Barrel Of Rotten Apples.

And Oftentimes Excusing Of A Fault Doth Make The Fault The Worse By The Excuse.

Do Not For One Repulse, Forego The Purpose That You Resolved To Effect.

Enjoy'd No Sooner But Despised Straight, Past Reason Hunted, And No Sooner Had Past Reason Hated