All My Possessions For A Moment Of

Let The Good Service Of Well-deservers Be Never Rewarded With Loss. Let Their Thanks Be Such As May Encourage More Strivers For The Like.

Who Seeketh Two Strings To One Bow, They May Shoot Strong, But Never Straight.

The Past Cannot Be Cured.

If Our Web Be Framed With Rotten Handles, When Our Loom Is Well Nigh Done, Our Work Is New To Begin. God Send The Weaver True Prentices Again, And Let Them Be Denizens.

My Mortal Foe Can No Ways Wish Me A Greater Harm Than England's Hate; Neither Should Death Be Less Welcome Unto Me Than Such A Mishap Betide Me.