Lads will be men.

Lata is long and dreigh.

Little wars an ill hussie what a dinner holds in.

Lips go, laps go, he that eats, let him pay.

Let alone makes many lurden.

Little kens the wife that sits by the fire, how the wind blows cold in
hurle-burle swyre.

Little troubles the eye, but far lesse the soul.

Love me little, and love me long.



M.

Many do lack, that yet would fain have in their pack.

Many smalls makes a great.

Measure, is Treasure.

Mint, ere ye strike.