Like A Barber's Chair That Fits All

Virtue And Genuine Graces In Themselves Speak What No Words Can Utter.

There Was Never Yet Philosopher That Could Endure The Toothache Patiently

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.

Sin, That Amends, Is But Patched With Virtue.

There Was Never Yet Fair Woman But She Made Mouths In A Glass.