Hee That Goes To Bed Thirsty Riseth

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?

He Is A Foole That Makes A Wedge Of His Fist.

Who Would Doe Ill Ne're Wants Occasion.

A Dead Bee Maketh No Hony.

Slander Is A Shipwrack By A Dry Tempest.