He Is A Foole That Makes A

Good Land, Evill Way.

Every Man's Censure Is First Moulded In His Own Nature.

All Flesh Is Not Venison.

The Tree That God Plants, No Winde Hurts It.

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