In War, Hunting, And Love, Men For

Hee That Bewailes Himselfe Hath The Cure In His Hands.

Tis Hard To Be Wretched, But Worse To Be Knowne So.

I Envy No Man's Nightingale Or Spring; Nor Let Them Punish Me With Loss Of Rhyme, Who Plainly Say, My God, My King.

Go Not For Every Grief To The Physician, Nor For Every Quarrell To The Lawyer, Nor For Every Thirst To The Pot.

The Tree That God Plants, No Winde Hurts It.