Hee pays too deare for honey that licks it from thornes.
It's a dangerous fire begins in the bed-straw.
A discontented man knowes not where to sit easie.
The evening praises the day, and the morning a frost.
Hee that hath patience hath fatt thrushes for a farthing.
Ah my deare God! though I am clean forgot, Let me not love thee, if I love thee not.