The dark grave, which knows all secrets, can alone reclaim the fatal doubt once cast on a woman's name.
Before you make a friend, eate a bushell of salt with him.
That which will not be spun, let it not come betweene the spindle and the distaffe.
No profit to honour, no honour to Religion.
Better a snotty child, then his nose wip'd off.
God's mill grinds slow, but sure.