Shew Me A Lyer, And I'le Shew

In Solitude, Be A Multitude To Thyself.

Take Heede Of The Viniger Of Sweet Wine.

Were There No Hearers, There Would Be No Backbiters.

An Ill Labourer Quarrells With His Tooles.

The Dark Grave, Which Knows All Secrets, Can Alone Reclaim The Fatal Doubt Once Cast On A Woman's Name.