All Flesh Is Not Venison.

An Old Mans Staffe Is The Rapper Of Deaths Doore.

Light Burdens, Long Borne, Grow Heavy.

He That Hath Children, All His Morsels Are Not His Owne.

I Envy No Man's Nightingale Or Spring; Nor Let Them Punish Me With Loss Of Rhyme, Who Plainly Say, My God, My King.

A Little Labour, Much Health.