An Upbraided Morsell Never Choaked Any.

The Gentle Hawke Halfe Mans Her Selfe.

The Horse That Drawes After Him His Halter, Is Not Altogether Escaped.

Grief Melts Away Like Snow In May, As If There Were No Such Cold Thing.

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

Patience, Time And Money Accommodate All Things.