Were it not for the bone in the legge, all the world would turne Carpenters (to make them crutches).

Good newes may bee told at any time, but ill in the morning.

Of a new Prince, new bondage.

Short boughs, long vintage.

He that lies with the dogs, riseth with fleas.

Could have recovered greenness?

The ill that comes out of our mouth falles into our bosome.