For evil deeds may better than bad words be borne.
For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.
Hard it is to teach the old horse to amble anew.
No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd, No arborett with painted blossoms drest And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al arownd.
Thankfulness is the tune of angels.
This iron world bungs down the stoutest hearts to lowest state; for misery doth bravest minds abate.