Men From Children Nothing Differ.

Time Hath Not Yet So Dried This Blood Of Mine, Nor Age So Eat Up My Invention, Nor Fortune Made Such Havoc Of My Means, Nor My Bad Life Reft Me So Much Of Friends, But They Shall Find Awaked In Such A Kind Both Strength Of Limb And Policy Of Mind, Ability In Means, And Choice Of Friends, To Quit Me Of Them Throughly.

There Is Not One Wise Man In Twenty That Will Praise Himself.

Foul Deeds Will Rise, Though All The Earth O'erwhelm Them, To Men's Eyes.

You Dull Ass Will Not Mend His Pace With Beating.

If't Be Summer News, Smile To't Before; If Winterly, Thou Need'st But Keep That Count'nance Still.