Sum Up At Night What Thou Hast

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?

Let Thy Mind Still Be Bent, Still Plotting, Where, And When, And How Thy Business May Be Done. Slackness Breeds Worms; But The Sure Traveller, Though He Alights Sometimes Still Goeth On.

A City That Parlies Is Half Gotten. [a City That Parleys Is Half Gotten.]

At Length The Fox Turnes Monk.

Count Not Fowre Except You Have Them In A Wallett.