With Empty Hand No Man Can Lure

Ther Nis No Werkman, Whatsoevere He Be, That May Bothe Werke Wel And Hastily.

The Life So Brief, The Art So Long In The Learning, The Attempt So Hard, The Conquest So Sharp, The Fearful Joy That Ever Slips Away So Quickly - By All This I Mean Love, Which So Sorely Astounds My Feeling With Its Wondrous Operation, That When I Think Upon It I Scarce Know Whether I Wake Or Sleep.

Patience Is A Conquering Virtue.

For Out Of Old Fields, As Men Saith, Cometh All This New Corn From Year To Year; And Out Of Old Books, In Good Faith, Cometh All This New Science That Men Learn.

For Tyme Ylost May Nought Recovered Be.