The Catt Sees Not The Mouse Ever.

Rise, Heart; Thy Lord Is Risen. Sing His Praise Without Delays, Who Takes Thee By The Hand, That Thou Likewise With Him Mayst Rise: That, As His Death Calcined Thee To Dust, His Life May Make Thee Gold, And, Much More, Just.

Sorrow Was All My Soul; I Scarce Believed, Till Grief Did Tell Me Roundly, That I Lived.

Deceive Not Thy Physician, Confessor, Nor Lawyer.

Feares Are Divided In The Midst.

It Is A Poor Sport That Is Not Worth A Candle.