Fooles Bite One Another, But Wise-men Agree

The Blind Eate Many A Flie. [the Blind Eat Many A Fly.]

He That Sings On Friday, Will Weepe On Sunday.

I Read, And Sigh, And Wish I Were A Tree; For Sure Then I Should Grow To Fruit Or Shade: At Least Some Bird Would Trust Her Household To Me, And I Should Be Just.

He That Is His Owne Counsellor Knowes Nothing Sure But What Hee Hath Laid Out.

He That Talkes Much Of His Happinesse Summons Griefe.