Hee that blowes in the dust fills his eyes with it.
Sundays observe; think when the bells do chime, 'T is angels' music.
Of all smells, bread; of all tastes, salt.
Fine dressing is a foule house swept before the doores.
Presse a stick, and it seemes a youth.
When a knave is in a plumtree he hath neither friend nor kin.