Good Counselors Lack No Clients.

Tis Mad Idolatry To Make The Service Greater Than The God.

Then Will I Raise Aloft The Milk-white Rose. For Whose Sweet Smell The Air Shall Be Perfumed.

But If The While I Think On Thee, Dear Friend, All Losses Are Restored And Sorrows End.

Tis A Blushing Shame-faced Spirit That Mutinies In A Man's Bosom. It Fills A Man Full Of Obstacles. It Made Me Once Restore A Purse Of Gold That (by Chance) I Found. It Beggars Any Man That Keeps It.

Thus May Poor Fools Belive False Teachers.