Who Remove Stones, Bruise Their Fingers.

Who Praiseth Saint Peter, Doth Not Blame Saint Paul.

The Sundaies Of Man's Life, Thredded Together On Time's String, Make Bracelets To Adorn The Wife Of The Eternal, Glorious King. On Sunday Heaven's Gates Stand Ope; Blessings Are Plentiful And Rife. More Plentiful Than Hope.

Better A Barefoot Than None.

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

Of The Smells, Bread; Of The Tastes, Salt.