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Happy man, happy dole.
John Heywood
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Let the world slide, let the world go;A fig for care, and a fig for woe!If I can't pay, why I can owe,And death makes equal the high and low.
John Heywood
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A day after the faire.
John Heywood
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Hee must have a long spoone, shall eat with the devill.
John Heywood
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Now for good lucke, cast an old shooe after me.
John Heywood
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Shee had seene far in a milstone.
John Heywood
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A penny for your thought.
John Heywood
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… I write for this Remembering and considering what the pith is, That by remembrance of these proverbs may grow. In this tale, erst talked with a friend, I show As many of them as we could fitly find Falling to purpose, that might fall in mind.
John Heywood
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Went in at the tone eare and out at the tother.
John Heywood
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It is a foule byrd that fyleth his owne nest.
John Heywood
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Feare may force a man to cast beyond the moone.
John Heywood
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I pray thee let me and my fellow haveA haire of the dog that bit us last night.
John Heywood
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Better one byrde in hand than ten in the wood.
John Heywood
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Wedding is destiny, and hanging likewise.
John Heywood
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Ye can not sée the wood for trées.
John Heywood
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True (quoth Ales) thinges doone can not be vndoone, Be they done in due tyme, to late, or to soone, But better late than neuer to repent this, To late (quoth my aunt) this repentance showd is, Whan the stéede is stolne shut the stable durre.
John Heywood
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The moone is made of a greene cheese.
John Heywood
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Time trieth troth in every doubt.
John Heywood
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Rome was not built in one day.
John Heywood
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Praie and shifte eche one for him selfe, as he can. Euery man for him selfe, and god for us all.
John Heywood
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It is better to beAn old man's derling than a yong man's werling.
John Heywood
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She speaketh as she would créepe into your bosome. And when the meale mouth hath woon the bottome of your stomake, than will the pickthanke it tell To your most enmies, you to bye and fell. To tell tales out of schoole, that is hir great lust. Looke what she knowth, blab it wist, out it must.
John Heywood
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A sleveless errand.
John Heywood
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That muche is my bowe bent to shoote at these marks, And kyll feare, when the sky falth we shall haue larks.
John Heywood
