Good Workemen Are Seldome Rich.

Who Paies The Physitian, Does The Cure.

A Cherefull Looke Makes A Dish A Feast.

Speake Not Of A Dead Man At The Table.

Money, Thou Bane Of Bliss, And Source Of Woe, Whence Cam'st Thou, That Thou Art So Fresh And Fine? I Know Thy Parentage Is Base And Low: Man Found Thee Poor And Dirty In A Mine.

He That Knows Nothing Doubts Nothing.