It's An Ill Aire Where Wee Gaine

The Comforters Head Never Akes.

The Sundaies Of Man's Life, Thredded Together On Time's String, Make Bracelets To Adorn The Wife Of The Eternal, Glorious King. On Sunday Heaven's Gates Stand Ope; Blessings Are Plentiful And Rife. More Plentiful Than Hope.

He Carries Well, To Whom It Waighes Not. [he Carries Well, To Whomit Weighs Not.]

It's A Proud Horse That Will Not Carry His Owne Provender.

Good Horses Make Short Miles.