The Vertue Of A Coward Is Suspition.

He That Hath No Hony In His Pot, Let Him Have It In His Mouth.

Sweet Rose, Whose Hue, Angry And Brave, Bids The Rash Gazer Wipe His Eye, Thy Root Is Even In The Grave, And Thou Must Die.

Who Spits Against Heaven, It Falls In His Face.

Chuse A Horse Made, And A Wife To Make.

Slander Is A Shipwrack By A Dry Tempest.