There Were No Ill Language, If It

When A Lackey Comes To Hells Doore, The Devills Locke The Gates.

Many, Affecting Wit Beyond Their Power, Have Got To Be A Dear Fool For An Hour.

Armour Is Light At Table.

Had You The World On Your Chesse-bord, You Could Not Fill All To Your Mind.

He That Praiseth Himselfe Spattereth Himselfe. [he That Praiseth Himself Spatteteth Himself.]