For Thogh We Slepe, Or

I Hold A Mouses Wit Not Worth A Leke, That Hath But On Hole For To Sterten To.

We Little Know The Things For Which We Pray.

Men Love Newfangleness.

Love Will Not Be Constrain'd By Mastery. When Mast'ry Comes, The God Of Love Anon Beateth His Wings, And, Farewell, He Is Gone. Love Is A Thing As Any Spirit Free.

Min Be The Travaille, And Thin Be The Glorie.