The pitcher goes so long to the well, until it breaks.
There is hardly ever a loaded cart which could not carry one more forkful (of hay).
They are as many as the Russians.
The horse that draws better is beaten.
The song of the man whose cart you sit on.
There is no coat big enough to hide both poverty and drunkenness.
They are rowing in the same ship.
The horse's leg protrudes.
The trees do not grow up to the sky.
There is no impossibility, only unwillingness.
They blow one stone.
The Hungarian justice is three.
The wind fells the oak, but cannot cope with the reed.
There is no joy without sorrow.
They grind in two mills.
The limits is the starlit sky.
The wolf, dog does not eat the winter.
There is no loaded cart which could not carry one more forkful.
They have buried the hatchet.
The little devil is hiding in me.
The woman of a man without sorrows is almost a widow.
There is no loss, which is not a gain for somebody.
They match as a stick in a quiver.
The magpie rattles, a guest vill come.
The works praises its master.