Hee That Is In A Taverne Thinkes

We Must Love, As Looking One Day To Hate.

Of Faire Things, The Autumne Is Faire.

Only A Sweet And Virtuous Soul, Like Season'd Timbered, Never Gives; But Though The Whole World Turn To Coal, Then Chiefly Lives.

Ty It Well, And Let It Goe.

If The Staffe Be Crooked, The Shadow Cannot Be Straight.