No Sooner Is A Temple Built To

A Caske And An Ill Custome Must Be Broken.

Happier Are The Hands Compast With Yron, Then A Heart With Thoughts.

Take Heede Of An Oxe Before, Of An Horse Behind, Of A Monke On All Sides.

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

The Crow Bewailes The Sheepe, And Then Eates It.