He calls me scabbed, because I will not call him skade.
Anes wood, never wise, ay the worse.
Painters and Poets may have leave to lie.
Dead and marriage makes Term-day.
He that is far from his geir, is near his skaith.
Quhen I am dead, make me a caddel.
A fools bolt is soon shot.
Livelesse, faultlesse.
Give never the Wolf the Wedder to keep.
Mister makes men of craft.