Life Is Half Spent Before

You May Be On Land, Yet Not In A Garden.

Take The Gentle Path.

Hee That Is Throwne Would Ever Wrestle.

Hee That Makes Himself A Sheep, Shall Be Eat By The Wolfe.

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?