For what made that in glory shine so long But poets' Pens, pluckt from Archangels' wings?

The sacred Dove a quill did lend From her high-soaring wing.

Deeds are males, words females are.

Zeal without knowledge is the sister of folly.

Much like a subtle spider, which doth sit In middle of her web, which spreadeth wide: If aught do touch the utmost thread of it, She feels it instantly on every side.

There was a man bespake a think, Which when the owner home did bring, He that made it did refuse it: And he that brought it would not use it, And he that hath it doth now know Whether he hath it yea or no.