It Is The End That Crowns Us,

Here A Little Child I Stand, Heaving Up My Either Hand; Cold As Paddocks Though They Be, Here I Lift Them Up To Thee, For A Benison To Fall On Our Meat, And On Us All. Amen.

It Is The End That Crowns Us, Not The Fight.

Let Wealth Come In By Comely Thrift, And Not By Any Sordid Shift; 't Is Haste Makes Waste; Extremes Have Still Their Fault. Who Gripes Too Hard The Dry And Slipp'ry Sand, Holds None At All, Or Little, In His Hand.

Tears Are The Noble Language Of Eyes, And When True Love Of Words Is Destitute. The Eye By Tears Speak, While The Tongue Is Mute.

Outdid The Meat, Outdid The Frolic Wine.