He That Loves To Be Flattered Is

Have Not Saints Lips, And Holy Palmers Too Ay, Pilgrim, Lips That They Must Use In Prayer.

So Holy And So Perfect Is My Love, And I In Such A Poverty Of Grace, That I Shall Think It A Most Plenteous Crop To Glean The Broken Ears After The Man That The Main Harvest Reaps.

Too Much To Know Is To Know Nought But Fame; And Every Godfather Can Give A Name.

For Though The Camomile, The More It Is Trodden On The Faster It Grows, Yet Youth, The More It Is Wasted, The Sooner It Wears.

For Conspiracy, I Know Not How It Tastes, Though It Be Dished For Me To Try How.