Hope Is The Poor Man's Bread.

Give Loosers Leave To Talke.

A Little And Good Fills The Trencher.

Rise, Heart; Thy Lord Is Risen. Sing His Praise Without Delays, Who Takes Thee By The Hand, That Thou Likewise With Him Mayst Rise: That, As His Death Calcined Thee To Dust, His Life May Make Thee Gold, And, Much More, Just.

God's Mill Grinds Slow, But Sure.

He That Talkes Much Of His Happinesse Summons Griefe.