To A Boiling Pot Flies Come Not.

Let Thy Mind Still Be Bent, Still Plotting, Where, And When, And How Thy Business May Be Done. Slackness Breeds Worms; But The Sure Traveller, Though He Alights Sometimes Still Goeth On.

I Read, And Sigh, And Wish I Were A Tree; For Sure Then I Should Grow To Fruit Or Shade: At Least Some Bird Would Trust Her Household To Me, And I Should Be Just.

Ill Vessels Seldome Miscarry.

Bells Call Others, But Themselves Enter Not Into The Church.

The Goate Must Browse Where She Is Tyed.