Silkes And Satins Put Out The Fire

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.

Gamsters And Race-horses Never Last Long.

That From Small Fires Comes Oft No Small Mishap.

Dare To Be True. Nothing Can Need A Lie: A Fault Which Needs It Most, Grows Two Thereby.

Health Without Money Is Halfe An Ague.