Into a mouth shut flies flie not.
He that talkes much of his happinesse summons griefe.
Ever since we weare cloathes, we know not one another.
It's a wicked thing to make a dearth ones garner.
If the braine sowes not corne, it plants thistles.
God's breath in man returning to his birth, The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage.