Every Mile Is Two In Winter

Of All Smells, Bread; Of All Tastes, Salt.

Presents Of Love Fear Not To Be Ill Taken Of Strangers.

Money, Thou Bane Of Bliss, And Source Of Woe, Whence Cam'st Thou, That Thou Art So Fresh And Fine? I Know Thy Parentage Is Base And Low: Man Found Thee Poor And Dirty In A Mine.

No Barber Shaves So Close But Another Finds Worke.

Heresie Is The School Of Pride.