It's An Ill Councell That Hath No

Let Thy Mind's Sweetness Have Its Operation Upon Thy Body, Clothes, And Habitation.

Hee That Workes After His Owne Manner, His Head Akes Not At The Matter.

Happier Are The Hands Compast With Yron, Then A Heart With Thoughts.

One Enemy Is Too Much.

If All Fooles Wore White Caps, Wee Should Seeme A Flock Of Geese.