We Credit Most Our Sight; One Eye

Feed Him Ye Must, Whose Food Fills You. And That This Pleasure Is Like Raine, Not Sent Ye For To Drowne Your Paine, But For To Make It Spring Againe.

O Thou, The Drink Of Gods And Angels! Wine

Happy Is The Bride That The Sun Shines On.

Let's Live With That Small Pittance Which We Have; Who Covets More Is Evermore A Slave.

Necessity Makes Dastards Valiant Men.