He that hath love in his brest, hath spurres in his sides.
Hee that hath one hogge makes him fat, and hee that hath one son makes him a foole.
The world is now adayes, God save the Conquerour.
The tree that God plants, no winde hurts it.
Hope is the poor man's bread.
Every man's censure is first moulded in his own nature.