Better Three Hours Too Soon, Than One

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.

Having Nothing, Nothing Can He Lose.

All's Well That Ends Well; Still The Fine's The Crown. Whate'er The Course, The End Is The Renown.

When The Sea Was Calm All Ships Alike Showed Mastership In Floating.

We Are Such Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of.