Mend your clothes and you may hold out this year.
Happier are the hands compast with yron, then a heart with thoughts.
Let an ill man lie in thy straw, and he looks to be thy heire.
We must recoile a little, to the end we may leap the better.
Good newes may bee told at any time, but ill in the morning.
Call me not an olive, till thou see me gathered.