Covetousnesse Breaks The Bag.

A Dead Bee Maketh No Hony.

Money, Thou Bane Of Bliss, And Source Of Woe, Whence Cam'st Thou, That Thou Art So Fresh And Fine? I Know Thy Parentage Is Base And Low: Man Found Thee Poor And Dirty In A Mine.

No Love Is Foule, Nor Prison Fair.

Take Heed Of Credit Decaid, And People That Have Nothing.

Favour Will As Surely Perish As Life.