There Were No Ill Language, If It

Envy Not Greatness: For Thou Mak'st Thereby Thyself The Worse, And So The Distance Greater.

In Great Pedigrees There Are Governours And Chandlers.

If That Thy Fame With Ev'ry Toy Be Pos'd, 'tis A Thin Web, Which Poysonous Fancies Make; But The Great Souldier's Honour Was Compos'd Of Thicker Stuf, Which Would Endure A Shake. Wisdom Picks Friends; Civility Plays The Rest; A Toy Shunn'd Cleanly Passeth With The Best.

It Is Part Of A Poor Spirit To Undervalue Himself And Blush.

The Ill That Comes Out Of Our Mouth Falles Into Our Bosome.