Neither Do Thou Lust After That Tawny

Out Of Clothes Out Of Countenance, Out Of Countenance Out Of Wit.

If All You Boast Of Your Great Art Be True; Sure, Willing Poverty Lives Most In You.

I Now Think, Love Is Rather Deaf, Than Blind, For Else It Could Not Be, That She, Whom I Adore So Much, Should So Slight Me, And Cast My Love Behind.

He That Would Have His Virtue Published, Is Not The Servant Of Virtue, But Glory.

Folly Often Goes Beyond Her Bounds, But Impudence Knows None.