If The Braine Sowes Not Corne, It

Every Man's Censure Is First Moulded In His Own Nature.

A Man Well Mounted Is Ever Cholerick.

Sorrow Was All My Soul; I Scarce Believed, Till Grief Did Tell Me Roundly, That I Lived.

Cloath Thee In War, Arme Thee In Peace.

Great Business Turns On A Little Pin.