Vertue Now Is In Herbs And Stones

Saint Luke Was A Saint And A Physitian, Yet Is Dead.

Grief Melts Away Like Snow In May, As If There Were No Such Cold Thing.

The Tree That Growes Slowly, Keepes It Selfe For Another.

God Sends A Curst Cow Short Horns.

The Corne Hides It Self In The Snow, As An Old Man In Furrs.