Things Are Often Spoke And Seldom Meant.

How Low Am I, Thou Painted Maypole?

How Much Salt Water Thrown Away In Waste/ To Season Love, That Of It Doth Not Taste.

All Surfeit Is The Father Of Much Fast.

Happy Are They That Hear Their Detractions, And Can Put Them To Mending.

The Bashful Virgin's Sidelong Looks Of Love, The Matron's Glance That Would Those Looks Reprove.