Everyone Thinks His Sack Heaviest.

Hee That Is Throwne Would Ever Wrestle.

Love Makes All Hard Hearts Gentle.

I Envy No Man's Nightingale Or Spring; Nor Let Them Punish Me With Loss Of Rhyme, Who Plainly Say, My God, My King.

He That Talkes Much Of His Happinesse Summons Griefe.

Let An Ill Man Lie In Thy Straw, And He Looks To Be Thy Heire.