The March Sunne Raises But Dissolves Not.

I Envy No Man's Nightingale Or Spring; Nor Let Them Punish Me With Loss Of Rhyme, Who Plainly Say, My God, My King.

Bee Not A Baker, If Your Head Be Of Butter.

Whatever Is Made By The Hand Of Man, By The Hand Of Man May Be Overturned.

In Good Yeares Corne Is Hay, In Ill Yeares Straw Is Corne.

Hee Will Spend A Whole Yeares Rent At One Meales Meate.