A Snow Year, A Rich Year.

If The Staffe Be Crooked, The Shadow Cannot Be Straight.

Listen, Sweet Dove, Unto My Song, And Spread Thy Golden Wings In Me; Hatching My Tender Heart So Long, Till It Get Wing, And Flie Away With Thee.

Gossips Are Frogs, They Drinke And Talke.

Great Paines Quickly Find Ease.

At Length The Fox Turnes Monk.