An Ill Labourer Quarrells With His Tooles.

The Masters Eye Fattens The Horse, And His Foote The Ground.

Poverty Is No Sinne. [poverty Is No Sin.]

Only A Sweet And Virtuous Soul, Like Seasoned Timber, Never Gives.

Saint Luke Was A Saint And A Physitian, Yet Is Dead.

Hee That Falles Into The Durt, The Longer He Stayes There, The Fowler He Is.