We Must Love, As Looking

Soft And Faire Goes Farre.

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.

Good Horses Make Short Miles.

A Scab'd Horse Cannot Abide The Comb.

The Drunkard Forfeits Man And Doth Divest All Wordly Right, Save What He Hath By Beast.