With emptie hands men may no haukes lure.
It is nought good a sleping hound to wake.
He who accepts his poverty unhurt I'd say is rich although he lacked a shirt. But truly poor are they who whine and fret and covet what they cannot hope to get.
Many small make a great.
One flesh they are; and one flesh, so I'd guess, Has but one heart, come grief or happiness.
A love grown old is not the love once new.