Of A Little Thing A

The Chiefe Boxe Of Health Is Time.

He That Serves Well Needes Not Ask His Wages.

He That Makes His Bed Ill, Lies There.

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.

The Fox Knowes Much, But More He That Catcheth Him.