Hee That Bewailes Himselfe Hath The Cure

Shall I, To Please Another Wine-sprung Minde, Lose All Mine Own? God Hath Giv'n Me A Measure Short Of His Can And Body; Must I Find A Pain In That, Wherein He Finds A Pleasure?

In Solitude, Be A Multitude To Thyself.

Hee A Beast Doth Die, That Hath Done No Good To His Country.

Stay A Little And News Will Find You.

The Eye And Religion Can Beare No Jesting.