God's Mill Grinds Slow, But Sure.

The Yeare Doth Nothing Else But Open And Shut.

Who Says That Fictions Only And False Hair Become A Verse? Is There In Truth No Beauty? Is All Good Structure In A Winding Stair?

Who Likes Not The Drinke, God Deprives Him Of Bread.

Keep Not Ill Men Company, Lest You Increase The Number.

A Master Of Straw Eates A Servant Of Steele.