Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing.
The tongue talkes at the heads cost.
Woe be to him that reads but one book.
It is part of a poor spirit to undervalue himself and blush.
The God of love my shepherd is, And he that doth me feed: While he is mine, and I am his, What can I want or need?
I had rather ride on an ass that carries me than a horse that throws me.