Wee leave more to do when wee dye, then wee have done.

A holy habit clenseth not a foule soule.

Neither eyes on letters, nor hands in coffers.

The hard gives more then he that hath nothing.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, like seasoned timber, never gives.

He puls with a long rope, that waits for anothers death.

It is part of a poor spirit to undervalue himself and blush.