The War Is Not Don So Long

A Lyons Skin Is Never Cheape.

I Envy No Man's Nightingale Or Spring; Nor Let Them Punish Me With Loss Of Rhyme, Who Plainly Say, My God, My King.

Still Fisheth He That Catcheth One.

God's Mill Grinds Slow, But Sure.

For Washing His Hands, None Sels His Lands.