The Apothecaries morter spoiles the Luters musick.
Living well is the best revenge.
Power seldome grows old at Court.
Praise day at night, and life at the end.
Praise none too much, for all are fickle.
Presents of love fear not to be ill taken of strangers.
Presse a stick, and it seemes a youth.
Prettiness dies first.
Princes are venison in Heaven.
Promising is the eve of giving.
Pull downe your hatt on the winds side.
Ready mony is a ready Medicine.
Reckon right, and February hath one and thirty daies.
Religion a stalking horse to shoot other foul.
Religion, Credit, and the Eye are not to be touched.
Rivers neede a spring.
Saint Luke was a Saint and a Physitian, yet is dead.
Send not a Catt for Lard.
We must recoile a little, to the end we may leap the better.
Wealth is like rheume, it falles on the weakest parts.
Who hath bitter in his mouth, spits not all sweet.