Rivers Neede A Spring.

Shall I, To Please Another Wine-sprung Minde, Lose All Mine Own? God Hath Giv'n Me A Measure Short Of His Can And Body; Must I Find A Pain In That, Wherein He Finds A Pleasure?

He Warmes Too Neere That Burnes.

Gold Opens All Locks, No Lock Will Hold Against The Power Of Gold.

He That Will Take The Bird, Must Not Skare It.

Woe Be To Him That Reads But One Book.