One Enemy Is Too Much.

He That Praiseth Himselfe Spattereth Himselfe. [he That Praiseth Himself Spatteteth Himself.]

All Came From, And Will Goe To Others.

No Barber Shaves So Close But Another Finds Worke.

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?

The Germans Wit Is In His Fingers.