Speake Not Of A Dead Man At

Sweet Rose, Whose Hue, Angry And Brave, Bids The Rash Gazer Wipe His Eye, Thy Root Is Even In The Grave, And Thou Must Die.

God Sends A Curst Cow Short Horns.

Man Is All Symmetry, Full Of Proportions, One Limb To Another.

Working And Making A Fire Doth Discretion Require.

There Are More Physitians In Health Then Drunkards.