Ill Comes In By Ells, And Goes

Trust Not One Night's Ice.

There Would Be No Great Ones, If There Were No Little Ones.

That Which Will Not Be Spun, Let It Not Come Betweene The Spindle And The Distaffe.

Of All Smells, Bread; Of All Tastes, Salt.

He That Sings On Friday, Will Weepe On Sunday.