One Paire Of Eares Drawes Dry An

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

A Broken Altar, Lord, Thy Servant Rears, Made Of A Heart, And Cemented With Tears.

All Our Pompe The Earth Covers.

Where There Is No Honour, There Is No Griefe.

If The Wise Erred Not, It Would Goe Hard With Fooles. [if The Wise Erred Not, It Would Go Hard With Fools.]