Fear keepes and looks to the vineyard, and not the owner.
He that hath hornes in his bosom, let him not put them on his head.
Greene wood makes a hott fire.
To the counsell of fooles a woodden bell.
O what a sight were Man, if his attires Did alter with his minde; And like a dolphins skinne, his clothes combin'd With his desires!
Let anger's fire be slow to burn.