Only A Sweet And Virtuous Soul, Like

Chuse None For Thy Servant Who Have Served Thy Betters.

Death Keepes No Calender.

He That Is Angry At A Feast Is Rude.

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.