He that makes himself dirt is trod on by the swine

The hog that ploughs not, not obeys thy call, Lives on the labours of this lord of all.

Then on the grounde Togyder rounde With manye a sadde stroke, They roll and rumble, They turne and tumble, As pigges do in a poke.

The fattest hog in Epicurus' sty.

You have a wrong sow by the ear.

Shear swine, all cry and no wool.