Who Hath No More Bread Then Neede,

Hee That Goes Barefoot, Must Not Plant Thornes.

The Wolfe Eats Oft Of The Sheep That Have Been Warn'd.

A Noble Plant Suites Not With A Stubborne Ground.

Everyone Is A Master And Servant.

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?