Here Will Be An Old Abusing Of

When I Bestride Him, I Soar, I Am A Hawk: He Trots The Air; The Earth Sings When He Touches It; The Basest Horn Of His Hoof Is More Musical Than The Pipe Of Hermes.

Do Not, As Some Ungracious Pastors Do, Show Me The Steep And Thorny Way To Heaven; Whilst, Like A Puff'd And Reckless Libertine, Himself The Primrose Path Of Dalliance Treads And Recks Not His Own Read.

Confusion Now Hath Made His Masterpiece.

Oft Have I Heard That Grief Softens The Mind And Makes It Fearful And Degenerate.

The Sweetest Honey Is Loathsome In His Own Deliciousness.