Water A Farre Off Quencheth

After So Many Deaths I Live And Write.

Soft And Faire Goes Farre.

Death Keeps No Calendar.

By All Means Use Sometimes To Be Alone. Salute Thyself: See What Thy Soul Doth Wear. Dare To Look In Thy Chest; For 'tis Thine Own: And Tumble Up And Down What Thou Findst There. Who Cannot Rest Till He Good Fellows Find, He Breaks Up House, Turns Out Of Doors His Mind.

Good Newes May Bee Told At Any Time, But Ill In The Morning.