The Life Of Spies Is To Know,

From A Chollerick Man Withdraw A Little; From Him That Saies Nothing, For Ever. [from A Choleric Man Withdraw A Little; From Him That Says Nothing, For Ever.]

Shall I, To Please Another Wine-sprung Minde, Lose All Mine Own? God Hath Giv'n Me A Measure Short Of His Can And Body; Must I Find A Pain In That, Wherein He Finds A Pleasure?

Hee That Dines And Leaves, Layes The Cloth Twice.

Beauty Drawes More Then Oxen.

Though The Mastiffe Be Gentile, Yet Bite Him Not By The Lippe.