I Escaped The Thunder, And Fell Into

It Is Better To Have Wings Then Hornes.

He Warmes Too Neere That Burnes.

Every Ill Man Hath His Ill Day.

Sweet Rose, Whose Hue, Angry And Brave, Bids The Rash Gazer Wipe His Eye, Thy Root Is Even In The Grave, And Thou Must Die.

All Are Presumed Good Till They Are Found At Fault.