Never Had Ill Workeman Good Tooles.

I Had Rather Aske Of My Sire Browne Bread, Then Borrow Of My Neighbour White.

Hope Is The Poor Man's Bread.

Who Hath Bitter In His Mouth, Spits Not All Sweet.

There Were No Ill Language, If It Were Not Ill Taken.

The First And Last Frosts Are The Worst.