Words Pay No Debts, Give Her Deeds.

After Your Death You Were Better Have A Bad Epitaph Than Their Ill Report While You Live.

Present Mirth Hath Present Laughter. What's To Come Is Still Unsure.

Thou Hast Her, France; Let Her Be Thine, For We Have No Such Daughter, Nor Shall Ever See That Face Of Hers Again. Therefore Be Gone Without Our Grace, Our Love, Our Benison.

Read O'er This And After, This, And Then To Breakfast With What Appetite You Have.

Those, That With Haste Will Make A Mighty Fire, Begin It With Weak Straws.