He Wears The Rose Of Youth Upon

Where Civil Blood Makes Civil Hands Unclean

He That Will Have A Cake Out Of The Wheat Must Tarry The Grinding. Have I Not Tarried? Ay, The Grinding; But You Must Tarry The Bolting. Have I Not Tarried? Ay, The Bolting; But You Must Tarry The Leavening. Still Have I Tarried. Ay, To The Leavening; But Here's Yet In The Word 'hereafter' The Kneading, The Making Of The Cake, The Heating Of The Oven, And The Baking; Nay, You Must Stay The Cooling Too, Or You May Chance To Burn Your Lips.

A Man I Am Cross'd With Adversity.

Who Can Control His Fate?

O Powerful Love, That In Some Respects Makes A Beast A Man, In Some Other, A Man A Beast.