Fortune, That Favors Fools.

The Burnt Child Dreads The Fire.

Out Of Clothes Out Of Countenance, Out Of Countenance Out Of Wit.

Spread Yourself Upon His Bosom Publicly, Whose Heart You Would Eat In Private.

There Is No Greater Hell Than To Be A Prisoner Of Fear.

You Are Not Now To Think What's Best To Do, As In Beginnings, But What Must Be Done, Being Thus Enter'd; And Slip No Advantage That May Secure You. Let Them Call It Mischief; When It Is Past, And Prosper'd , 'twill Be Virtue.