Wickedness Is Its Own Punishment.

Luxury Is An Enticing Pleasure, A Bastard Mirth, Which Hath Honey In Her Mouth, Gall In Her Heart, And A Sting In Her Tail.

Proportion Thy Charity To The Strength Of Thine Estate, Lest God Proportion Thine Estate To The Weakness Of Thy Charity. Let The Lips Of The Poor Be The Trumpet Of Thy Gift, Lest In Seeking Applause, Thou Lose Thy Reward. Nothing Is More Pleasing To God Than An Open Hand And A Closed Mouth.

Sin, When It Is Finished, Bringeth Forth Death.

Rather Do What Is Nothing To The Purpose Than Be Idle; That The Devil May Find Thee Doing. The Bird That Sits Is Easily Shot, When Fliers Scape The Fowler. Idleness Is The Dead Sea That Swallows All The Virtues, And The Self-made Sepulchre Of A Living Man.

The Heart Is A Small Thing, But Desireth Great Matters. It Is Not Sufficient For A Kite's Dinner, Yet The Whole World Is Not Sufficient For It.