Every One Thinkes His Sacke Heaviest.

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.

He That Is Not Handsome At 20, Nor Strong At 30, Nor Rich At 40, Nor Wise At 50, Will Never Be Handsome, Strong, Rich Or Wise.

In An Hundred Elles Of Contention, There Is Not An Inch Of Love.

An Ill Deed Cannot Bring Honor.

Evils Have Their Comfort, Good None Can Support.