He Hath No Leisure Who Useth It

Before You Make A Friend, Eate A Bushell Of Salt With Him.

Where You Thinke There Is Bacon, There Is No Chimney.

Little Wealth, Little Care.

Only A Sweet And Virtuous Soul, Like Season'd Timbered, Never Gives; But Though The Whole World Turn To Coal, Then Chiefly Lives.

He Plaies Well That Winnes. [he Plays Well That Wins.]