Every Man's Censure Is First Moulded In

He That Talkes Much Of His Happinesse Summons Griefe.

Slander Is A Shipwrack By A Dry Tempest.

He That Hath Time And Looks For Better Time, Time Comes That He Repents Himself Of Time.

Reckon Right, And February Hath One And Thirty Daies.

Hope Is The Poor Man's Bread.