I Have A Bone To Pick With

. . . It Is Impossible You Should Take True Root But By The Fair Weather That You Make Yourself It Is Needful That You Frame The Season Of Your Own Harvest.

All Thy Vexations Were But My Trials Of Thy Love, And Thou Hast Strangely Stood The Test; Here, Afore Heaven, I Ratify This My Rich Gift.

Making Night Hideous.

He Must Needs Go That The Devil Drives.

Go Wisely And Slowly. Those Who Rush Stumble And Fall.