The filth under the white snow, the sunne discovers.
Who remove stones, bruise their fingers.
Hee that dines and leaves, layes the cloth twice.
Sundays observe; think when the bells do chime, 'T is angels' music.
God keepe me from foure houses, an Vsurers, a Taverne, a Spittle, and a Prison.
If you walk on snow you cannot hide your footprints.