Yet In Our Ashen Cold

Who Then May Trust The Dice, At Fortune's Throw?

Habit Maketh No Monk, Ne Wearing Of Gilt Spurs Maketh No Knight.

That Field Hath Eyen, And The Wood Hath Ears.

If Gold Ruste, What Shall Iren Do?

My House Is Small, But You Are Learned Men And By Your Arguments Can Make A Place Twenty Foot Broad As Infinite As Space.