There come nought out of the sacke but what was there.

It's an ill aire where wee gaine nothing.

Prettiness dies first.

Of all smells, bread; of all tastes, salt.

Between the businesse of life and the day of death, a space ought to be interposed.

The comforters head never akes.

To a fair day open the window, but make you ready as to a foule.