Many small make a great.

Ther nis no werkman, whatsoevere he be, That may bothe werke wel and hastily.

. . . if gold rust, what then will iron do?/ For if a priest be foul in whom we trust/ No wonder that a common man should rust. . . .

In the stars is written the death of every man.

It is nought good a sleping hound to wake.

Full wise is he that can himselven knowe.

For many a pasty have you robbed of blood, And many a Jack of Dover have you sold That has been heated twice and twice grown cold. From many a pilgrim have you had Christ's curse, For of your parsley they yet fare the worse, Which they have eaten with your stubble goose; For in your shop full many a fly is loose.