There Would Be No Great Ones, If

Sweet Rose, Whose Hue, Angry And Brave, Bids The Rash Gazer Wipe His Eye, Thy Root Is Even In The Grave, And Thou Must Die.

It Is Good To Hold The Asse By The Bridle.

All Griefes With Bread Are Lesse.

No Church-yard Is So Handsom, That A Man Would Desire Straight To Bee Buried There. [no Churchyard Is So Handsome That A Man Would Desire Straight To Be Buried There.]

True Beauty Dwells On High: Ours Is A Flame But Borrowed Thence To Light Us Thither. Beauty And Beauteous Words Should Go Together.