None Pities Him That Is In The

Let Wealth Come In By Comely Thrift, And Not By Any Sordid Shift; 't Is Haste Makes Waste; Extremes Have Still Their Fault. Who Gripes Too Hard The Dry And Slipp'ry Sand, Holds None At All, Or Little, In His Hand.

Gather Ye Rosebuds, While Ye May.

If Little Labour, Little Are Our Gains: Man's Fortunes Are According To His Pains.

Happy Is The Bride That The Sun Shines On.

What Though The Sea Be Calm? Trust To The Shore, Ships Have Been Drown'd, Where Late They Danc'd Before.