You Say To Me-wards Your

Let Wealth Come In By Comely Thrift, And Not By Any Sordid Shift; 't Is Haste Makes Waste; Extremes Have Still Their Fault. Who Gripes Too Hard The Dry And Slipp'ry Sand, Holds None At All, Or Little, In His Hand.

Welcome, Maids Of Honor, You Doe Bring In The Spring, And Wait Upon Her.

He Loves His Bonds Who, When The First Are Broke, Submits His Neck Into A Second Yoke.

Happy Is The Bride That The Sun Shines On.

Give, If Thou Can, An Alms; If Not, A Sweet And Gentle Word.