If Were Not Foolish Young, Were Foolish

All Good Things Must Come To An End.

With Emptie Hands Men May No Haukes Lure.

I Hold A Mouses Wit Not Worth A Leke, That Hath But On Hole For To Sterten To.

In April The Sweet Showers Fall And Pierce The Drought Of March To The Root, And All The Veins Are Bathed In Liquor Of Such Power As Brings About The Engendering Of The Flower.

If Were Not Foolish Young, Were Foolish Old.