There's no workman, whatsoever he be, That may both work well and hastily.
With emptie hands men may no haukes lure.
Woe to the cook whose sauce has no sting.
Many small make a great.
Ther nis no werkman, whatsoevere he be, That may bothe werke wel and hastily.
One flesh they are; and one flesh, so I'd guess, Has but one heart, come grief or happiness.