It Is A Foule Byrd That Fyleth

No Man Ought To Looke A Given Horse In The Mouth.

Be Of Comfort, And Your Heavy Sorrow Part Equally Among Us; Storms Divided, Abate Their Force, And With Less Rage Are Guided.

When The Steede Is Stolne, Shut The Stable Durre.

The Wise Man Sayth, Store Is No Sore.

It Hurts Not The Tongue To Give Faire Words.