A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.

Perseverance... keeps honor bright: to have done, is to hang quite out of fashion, like a rusty nail in monumental mockery.

Thus may poor fools Belive false teachers.

Then others for breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.

None can cure their harms by wailing them.

Well could he ride, and often men would say, "That horse his mettle from his rider takes: Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes!" And controversy hence a question takes, Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manage by the well-doing steed.