If The Braine Sowes Not Corne, It

Who Says That Fictions Only And False Hair Become A Verse? Is There In Truth No Beauty? Is All Good Structure In A Winding Stair?

Ever Since We Weare Cloathes, We Know Not One Another.

A Man Well Mounted Is Ever Cholerick.

Where The Drink Goes In, There The Wit Goes Out.

If Thou Thy Selfe Canst Doe It, Attend No Others Helpe Or Hand.