As The Yeere Is, Your Pot Must

I Envy No Man's Nightingale Or Spring; Nor Let Them Punish Me With Loss Of Rhyme, Who Plainly Say, My God, My King.

A Disarmed Peace Is Weake.

Neither Eyes On Letters, Nor Hands In Coffers.

He That Trusts Much Obliges Much, Says The Spaniard.

One Graine Fills Not A Sacke, But Helpes His Fellowes.