In cloths cheap handsomeness, doth bear the bell.
Night is the mother of counsels.
The good mother sayes not, Will you? but gives.
He that hath love in his brest, hath spurres in his sides.
Happier are the hands compast with yron, then a heart with thoughts.
I had rather aske of my sire browne bread, then borrow of my neighbour white.