Many Kiss The Hand They Wish Cut

The Mill Gets By Going.

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.

Between The Businesse Of Life And The Day Of Death, A Space Ought To Be Interposed.

Modesty Sets Off One Newly Come To Honour.

Lie Not, Neither To Thyself, Nor Man, Nor God. Let Mouth And Heart Be One; Beat And Speak Together, And Make Both Felt In Action. It Is For Cowards To Lie.