No Love Is Foule, Nor Prison Fair.

He Is A Foole That Makes A Wedge Of His Fist.

Working And Making A Fire Doth Discretion Require.

It Is Part Of A Poor Spirit To Undervalue Himself And Blush.

The Physitian Owes All To The Patient, But The Patient Owes Nothing To Him But A Little Mony.

He That Riseth First, Is First Drest.