Of Faire Things, The Autumne Is Faire.

The Evening Praises The Day, And The Morning A Frost.

Who Hath A Wolfe For His Mate, Needes A Dog For His Man.

Bees Work For Man, And Yet They Never Bruise Their Master's Flower, But Leave It Having Done, As Fair As Ever And As Fit To Use; So Both The Flower Doth Stay And Honey Run.

Wouldst Thou Both Eat Thy Cake And Have It?

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