The Old Folk, Time's Doting Chronicles.

To Go To Bed After Midnight Is To Go To Bed Betimes

A Fool Thinks Himself To Be Wise, But A Wise Man Knows Himself To Be A Fool.

How Ill White Hairs Become A Fool And Jester!

Many Strokes, Though With A Little Axe, Hew Down And Fell The Hardest-timber'd Oak.

Love's Not Time's Fool, Though Rosy Lips And Cheeks Within His Bending Sickle's Compass Come.