What Showers Arise, Blown With The Windy

So May The Outward Shows Be Least Themselves; The World Is Still Deceived With Ornament.

The Bitter Past, More Welcome Is The Sweet.

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.

The Worm Is Not To Be Trusted.

Every Inordinate Cup Is Unbless'd, And The Ingredient Is A Devil.