Presse A Stick, And It Seemes A

Let An Ill Man Lie In Thy Straw, And He Looks To Be Thy Heire.

Who Letts His Wife Goe To Every Feast, And His Horse Drinke At Every Water, Shall Neither Have Good Wife Nor Good Horse.

The March Sunne Raises But Dissolves Not.

After So Many Deaths I Live And Write.

Jest Not With The Eye Or With Religion.