Every Path Hath A Puddle.

That Is Gold Which Is Worth Gold.

All That Shakes Falles Not.

He That Hath Hornes In His Bosom, Let Him Not Put Them On His Head.

Fortune To One Is Mother, To Another Is Step-mother.

No Church-yard Is So Handsom, That A Man Would Desire Straight To Bee Buried There. [no Churchyard Is So Handsome That A Man Would Desire Straight To Be Buried There.]