Good Land, Evill Way.

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 Germans Wit Is In His Fingers.

The March Sunne Raises But Dissolves Not.

If You Would Bee At Ease, All The World Is Not.

The Vertue Of A Coward Is Suspition.