Good Newes May Bee Told At Any

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

Money, Thou Bane Of Bliss, And Source Of Woe, Whence Cam'st Thou, That Thou Art So Fresh And Fine? I Know Thy Parentage Is Base And Low: Man Found Thee Poor And Dirty In A Mine.

Nothing Secure Unlesse Suspected.

Who Hastens A Glutton Choakes Him.

A Litle Wind Kindles; Much Puts Out The Fire.