For Washing His Hands, None Sels His

Love Makes One Fitt For Any Work.

Who Says That Fictions Only And False Hair Become A Verse? Is There In Truth No Beauty? Is All Good Structure In A Winding Stair?

Night Is The Mother Of Counsels.

Still Fisheth He That Catcheth One.

The Yeare Doth Nothing Else But Open And Shut.