The riche mans wealth, is moste enemye vnto his health

Byrds of a fether, best flye together.

Well, I wyll set a face of brasse on it.

What is this world, a net to snare the soule, A masse of sinne, a desart of deceipt, A momentes ioy, an age of wrecched dole: A lure from grace, for flesh a lothsome baite, Unto the minde a canker worme of care, Unsure, uniust, in rendring …

Whylst grasse, doth growe ofte sterues the seely stéede.

Riches is not what we have, but what we enjoy.

Poverty is not the fault of the poor. It is the fault of a system that allows idleness at the top and starvation at the bottom.