There Come Nought Out Of The Sacke

Religion, Credit, And The Eye Are Not To Be Touched.

The House Shows The Owner.

I Envy No Man's Nightingale Or Spring; Nor Let Them Punish Me With Loss Of Rhyme, Who Plainly Say, My God, My King.

It Is A Poor Sport That Is Not Worth A Candle.

The Masters Eye Fattens The Horse, And His Foote The Ground.