Hope Is The Poor Man's Bread.

Sweet Rose, Whose Hue, Angry And Brave, Bids The Rash Gazer Wipe His Eye, Thy Root Is Even In The Grave, And Thou Must Die.

The Body Is More Drest Then The Soule.

He Quits His Place Well, That Leaves His Friend There.

Let Thy Mind's Sweetness Have Its Operation Upon Thy Body, Clothes, And Habitation.

Into A Mouth Shut Flies Flie Not.