It's A Wicked Thing To

I Envy No Man's Nightingale Or Spring; Nor Let Them Punish Me With Loss Of Rhyme, Who Plainly Say, My God, My King.

Folly Growes Without Watering.

Evils Have Their Comfort, Good None Can Support.

The More Women Looke In Their Glasse, The Lesse They Looke To Their House. [the More Women Look In Their Glass, The Less They Look To Their House.]

Brabling Curres Never Want Torne Eares.