Covetousness bursts the sack and spills the grain.
Heap on more wood! - the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
Cats are a mysterious kind of folk.
A sinful heart makes feeble hand.
The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have know a better day.
If you once turn on your side after the hour at which you ought to rise, it is all over. Bolt up at once.