There be foure good mothers have foure bad daughters: Trueth hath…

Crush the serpent in the head, Break ill egs yer they be hatched. Kill bad chickens in the tread, Fledge[d] they hardly can be catched. In the rising stifle ill, Lest it grow against thy will.

Our best life is to die well: for living here we enjoy nothing: things past are dead and gone: things present are alwayes ending: things future alwayes beginning: while we live we die; and we leave dying, when we leave living.

A faire woman is a paradise to the eye, a purgatorye to the purse, and a hell to the soule.

To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire, The damsel's of humble descent; The cottager, Peace, is well known for her sire, And shepherds have nam'd her Content.

Those who live on vanity must not unreasonably expect to die of mortification.

Oft has it been my lot to mark A proud, conceited, talking spark.