Bid Me Despair, And I'll

If Little Labour, Little Are Our Gains: Man's Fortunes Are According To His Pains.

Necessity Makes Dastards Valiant Men.

The Readiness Of Doing Doth Expresse No Other But The Doer's Willingnesse.

Let Wealth Come In By Comely Thrift, And Not By Any Sordid Shift; 't Is Haste Makes Waste; Extremes Have Still Their Fault. Who Gripes Too Hard The Dry And Slipp'ry Sand, Holds None At All, Or Little, In His Hand.

Our Present Tears Here, Not Our Present Laughter Are But The Handsells Of Our Joys Hereafter.