The Fault Of The Horse Is Put

Doe What Thou Oughtest, And Come What Come Can.

Wealth Is Like Rheume, It Falles On The Weakest Parts.

A Morning Sunne, And A Wine-bred Child, And A Latin-bred Woman, Seldome End Well.

A City That Parlies Is Half Gotten. [a City That Parleys Is Half Gotten.]

Who Likes Not The Drinke, God Deprives Him Of Bread.