My House, My House, Though Thou Art

The Wolfe Eats Oft Of The Sheep That Have Been Warn'd.

Shall I, To Please Another Wine-sprung Minde, Lose All Mine Own? God Hath Giv'n Me A Measure Short Of His Can And Body; Must I Find A Pain In That, Wherein He Finds A Pleasure?

Hee That Is In A Taverne Thinkes He Is In A Vine-garden.

The Life Of Spies Is To Know, Not Bee Known.

No Profit To Honour, No Honour To Religion.