A Fool Too Late Bewares When All

Anger Makes Dull Men Witty, But It Keeps Them Poor.

I Plucke Up The Goodlie Greene Herbes Of Sentences By Pruning, Eat Them By Reading, Chawe Them By Musing, And Laie Them Up At Length In The Hie Seate Of Memorie By Gathering Them Together; That I, Having Tasted The Sweetenes, L May The Lesse Perceave The Bitternes Of This Miserable Life.

My Seat Has Been The Seat Of Kings, And I Will Have No Rascal To Succeed Me.

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

They Best Pass Over The World Who Trip Over It Quickly; For It Is But A Bog. If We Stop, We Sink.