Neither Eyes On Letters, Nor Hands In

Who Remove Stones, Bruise Their Fingers.

The Corne Hides It Self In The Snow, As An Old Man In Furrs.

Every One Is Weary, The Poore In Seeking, The Rich In Keeping, The Good In Learning.

He That Will Do Thee A Good Turne, Either He Will Be Gon Or Dye.

Love Without End, Hath No End, Says The Spaniard: (meaning, If It Were Not Begun On Particular Ends, It Would Last).